


Searching for Smoke

by skybound2



Series: Until It's Over (It's Never Over) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 13, Banter, Crowley (Supernatural) Lives, Drama, Fix-It, Gen, Human Crowley (Supernatural), Humor, I'll add more tags as they become relevant to the story, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Slow Build, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-01-30 14:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12655500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybound2/pseuds/skybound2
Summary: Chuck watches as Amara tugs on a tendril of time, showing him her thoughts.“You wanna bringhimback?”As far as plot twists go, it has its merits.~~~“You know, maybe I would have found this place cozy, quaint, once upon a time. I could have done wonderful, monstrous things here. Back before I ever heard the nameWinchester.”~~~Or the one where Crowley lives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic while I was also working on [Ramble On](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12487128), and so this takes place in the same universe as that fic, though reading that first isn't truly necessary. This will be mostly canon-compliant through 12x23, taking into account the info provided in Ramble On, then veering off into my own fix-it version of Season 13. (While there may be some similarities with S13, I don't anticipate them being too common or too similar, so this shouldn't really be spoilery for new episodes. I'll warn you if that changes.) 
> 
> This fic is a WIP. I am aiming to update at least once a week. The next couple of chapters are undergoing revisions at present, and the majority of the fic has been outlined, but it is not yet complete. So please bare that in mind.
> 
> Title borrowed from a lyric in the **Tribe Society** song _Kings_. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The - let’s call it ‘funny’ - thing about being an omnipotent omniscient being is that you can chose to turn _off_ that omniscience when the need (or want) arises.

It’s how Chuck’s managed to keep his (relative) sanity for so many eons.

And so, upon vacating to the in-betweens of reality with his sister (whom - he can admit now - he has missed _so very much_ ) he turned _off_ most of the all-knowing parts of himself, allowing a few select programs to flow through on the most important channels.

The Winchesters are, to no one's surprise, on that short ‘must watch’ list.

But, allowing himself to _know_ what is going on throughout creation does not mean that he will intervene.

That’s one lesson he’s learned time and time again: children never learn to stand on their own, if you don’t let go of their hands.

And so, he has not been deaf to the prayers of Sam and Dean Winchester. He has heard them each and every time, ringing loud. Clarion calls for his intervention. For Castiel. For Mary. Even for Crowley.

That last one was a bit of a surprise, if he’s honest. Not so much that Dean had included Crowley in his prayers (a problem with being tuned to a particular channel at all times is that you sometimes catch a show you’d not planned on watching) but that Sam had done so as well had caught Chuck a bit off guard. True, Sam’s request was borne more out of a sense of obligation than from genuine _want_ for Crowley's return. But the fact remains that he prayed for him all the same. That’s interesting enough for Chuck to take note.

So he takes note. 

But that is all he does.

Despite what many would claim, he is not indifferent to their pleas. He wishes he _was_. Instead he feels their anguish - fresh, raw despair - like it was his own. 

But he will do nothing, all the same.

They need to stand on their own, if they are ever going to learn to _walk_.

Explaining that to his _sister_ , however, is easier said than done.

“ **Pain**. Dean - Dean’s in _pain_.”

She gasps (as much as a purely metaphysical being _can_ gasp of course), her entire presence vibrating with an out of sync energy that Chuck has long since come to associate with distress.

“Yes. He is.”

“I can hear - I can _feel_ him. Calling out to me... Reaching- We **need** to help him-”

Chuck tucks his essence around his sister, doing what he can to smooth her rough and frightened edges with gentle waves of calm. “We can’t.”

His sister growls, her essence swirling heavy and dark, pushing back at him. “We **CAN**.”

“Well, of course, we _can_ , but that doesn’t mean we _should_.”

“ ** _Why?_** ”

In response, Chuck sends her thoughts - memories - pulled from an eternity of prayers made and answered. Of disastrous outcome after disastrous outcome. He shows her creation, and the burden of billions of souls clamoring for your time, your attention, your help.

Her anger subsides, the swirling patterns of her growing lighter with curiosity.

“Is this...is this what it’s like for you? All the time? When humans pray? This...desperation? This _need_?”

“Multiplied by a few billion. Yeah, this is sorta what it’s like.”

Her whole being blinks, grays and muted violets blending in the dark of her. “No one has ever...prayed to me, before.” She sounds lost. Uncertain. And maybe a little bit awed.

She is wrong, of course. Chucks knows. For there have been entire religions that rose under her name and sought her blessing. Realms that would have brought the world to its knees and served it to her upon a scorched platter, if she would but answer their call.  

Only, she was locked away where she couldn’t hear. 

Chuck thinks that’s a tale best saved for a few millennia down the road. When she’s a little less...volatile.

“I wish to help him.”

Chuck sighs. “Amara-”

“No! No **you** may ignore them all. The millions upon millions of tiny gnats that buzz at you and call you father, begging for you from the depths of their pitiful souls for their petty lives. But I have only this **one**. And I **will help him!** ”

Her presence grows and grows, looming ever larger until she is all there is. The beginning and the end of everything.

“Okay!” Chuck does not shrink from her, but he does retreat. “Okay. Okay. So we’ll help him.” He flares out in a peaceful pattern, and hopes she can tell that for all he may disagree, that he is also on her side. “We will. But you see what it is he is praying for?”

“Castiel.”

Chuck nods. “And you see that he has already been saved?”

“But Dean does not know!”

“But he will. He will. You can see that.”

Amara pauses and _looks_. Looks down the timelines, the maybes and the perhaps. And she sees. “Yes. He will.”

“And you see that Mary - whom you have already given back to Dean once, graciously, I might add - is also alive and well. So, really, there is no need for us to do-”

Amara’s energy fluxes and bends, agitation bleeding through. “But _her_ outcome is not so certain. Titled one way, and she is reunited with Dean, another and she dies. Again and again **and again**.”

Chuck knows this, of course. Knows that Mary’s fate is far from set in stone. Those are always the timelines - the _lives_ \- that he finds the most interesting to watch. As it is within that fuzzy space that free will can truly take hold. That alone would win her a spot on the DVR, even if she _wasn’t_ also a Winchester. “Yeah. There’s a lot of variables surrounding her.”

To say that his sister _beams_ is inadequate. There are no words to describe the way that she _glows_ , this beautiful being of unfathomable dark. “Then we remove them.”

He watches as Amara tugs on a tendril of time, and shows him her thoughts. He sees the way that Mary’s possible futures coalesce down, until her fate is more of a flexible gel, rather than thin as air.

As far as plot twists go, it has its merits.

“You wanna bring _him_ back?”

But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t stand for a few improvements. Every story needs a good editor after all.

“Dean wishes it.” Her pattern swirls and shrinks. Certainty in her action calming her in a way that Chuck alone never could. “And...he was kind to me. In his own way.”

Chuck has opinions on _that,_ but he figures they aren’t important right now. “If I may make a suggestion?”

Amara gestures for him to proceed, and Chuck pulls back on the timelines. Shows her a history she never before had cause (nor interest) to see. Her essence flickers with surprise as she leans forward for a closer view. Encouraged, he takes her down the curves and narrow passageways of his idea, showing her the differences one little tweak could make.

 _Could_ being key. It’s almost intoxicating how many ways the whole thing could pan out. Chuck finds he is vibrating with giddy excitement at the possibilities.

He hopes his sister agrees.

“Well? What do you think? Shall we?”

“ **Yes**.”

And as simple as that, it is done.

Chuck, and Amara to his unending surprise, settle in for the show.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

They bury Cas at the foot of a tree, in a forest behind the little house where he lost his life. 

There’s no hunter’s funeral, because neither Sam nor Dean are willing to believe...not yet at least.

Or maybe ever, if the look on Dean’s face since they placed Castiel in the ground is any indication.

It’s a long, silent drive back home to the bunker. Dean’s white-knuckled grip on the wheel an ever-present echo of the turmoil they are both drowning in.

Sam wishes, for not the first time, that this wasn’t their lot in life. That they weren’t just road tripping their way from one lost loved one to the next, punctuated by moments of apocalypse and the occasional resurrection.

Halfway home, they spend a mournful night in Wyoming.

Sam stays in their rented room, thinking on all that has come to pass in the last 72 hours. He thinks of Lucifer, and how all of the pain in their life always seems to lead back to him. He wishes he could be grateful that he’s gone, but all he can focus on is his mother being gripped by the archangel as they fell through the portal together; and how at this very moment, she is lost in that hellscape world.  

He thinks of Crowley, killing himself to close the portal and lock away Lucifer once and for all, maybe even saving the world in the process. The demon committing suicide in what, to Sam at least, appears to have been the result of a sudden influx of responsibility and _guilt._

Sam’s not sure if that is really _why_ Crowley did what he did, but he also feels it may be too soon to think anything less charitable.

He thinks about Castiel, and the look of broken surprise on his face when the angel blade plunged through his chest. Sam thinks about how the pierce of the blade seemed to stab straight through Cas and into Sam’s own soul; all warmth sucked away by that cold emptiness you feel when your family shrinks by one.

It’s a feeling he wishes he wasn’t so damn familiar with.

And he thinks of Jack. The nephilim that’s barely been born, and is already the cause of so much pain. He thinks of how the teenage ( _what? how?!)_ boy winked out of the nursery before Sam could get within five steps. The sound of flapping wings echoes in his memory, and he wonders where the boy could have gone, and what chance do they have at finding him?

And what kind of damage he may cause if they don't.

Sam thinks of all these things. And he prays. Futile though he knows it is, he prays. Holding onto the tiniest shred of hope that God is listening, or more importantly, that he will _answer._

Dean, by contrast, makes haste to some bar nearby without ever setting foot in the hotel room. His face when he returns is pale and drawn. For all his hands shake as he drops his keys on the table, and turns the lock on the door, he’s still steady on his feet.

Sam doesn’t ask about the scrapes on his knuckles, or the bloody cut on his lip.

They head out the next morning as quiet as they arrived. And when Dean pulls the Impala into the garage, it is without his usual finesse. He slams the door on his way out with enough force that all the windows shake.

Sam follows at a more sedate pace, the bag on his shoulder dragging down his whole frame as exhaustion curls around his ankles like anchors. His trudging path comes to an end when he reaches the main room and spots Dean staring down at their usual research table, his duffle dropped by his feet.

There’s a bottle of amber liquid sitting on the table - one Sam knows wasn’t there when they rushed out on the trail of Castiel what seems like a lifetime ago. A familiar knife, dried blood caked along its edge, is resting beside it.

Dean reaches out and grasps the bottle by the neck, angling it upward. He holds it still long enough for Sam to catch a glimpse of the label; the name twinges something in his memory, but doesn’t quite catch.

Dean’s tense stance screams recognition though. His head hung low as he stares down at the bottle in his hand. Or at least, that’s what Sam thinks until he takes a step closer, and sees a slip of paper clutched in his brother’s other fist.

He squints, but can’t make out anything in the neat lines scrawled on its surface. He might not be able to read it from this distance, but the handwriting itself is the last clue he needs for the picture to resolve.

But knowing who wrote it is only half the mystery. And he can’t help but be curious as to what message Crowley left behind along with the demon-killing knife Dean had stabbed him with, and a bottle of very fine scotch. He opens his mouth to ask just that, when Dean’s frozen frame abruptly thaws. He shoves the note into his front pocket and turns away from the table, bottle in hand. He stalks in the direction of their rooms, only to stop short of the doorway, make an about face turn to grab a single tumbler off a nearby shelf, and turn back towards the hallway once more.

Sam knows if he lets him go now, that he won’t see him until long after his hangover has begun to fade and he comes crawling out for a burger and bacon.

“Dean-”

“Later, Sam. I’ve got a date with a bottle.” Dean’s face is stubborn, his jaw set, as he looks at Sam like Sam can’t possibly understand what he’s feeling. Like Dean and Dean alone is the only one who’s lost anything here.

Sam’s concern boils over into frustration, hands curling into fists against his thighs. “I see that, but we need-”

“I **know** , Sam. I know. We’ve got a shitton of work to do.” Dean shakes his head, his voice low, gruff. “Satan’s hellspawn is off who knows where, doing who knows what - but whatever it is, it ain’t good. Mom’s trapped in an apocalyptic nightmare where we were never BORN. With **_Lucifer_**.”

His brother stomps a step closer to Sam. The corners of his eyes pinched tight and his arm sweeping out in an angry arc that sloshes the liquid in the bottle about violently. “Crowley SACRIFICED himself to save the freakin’ world. And Cas...Cas is… Dead… He’s DEAD, Sam, and I…” Dean blinks twice, in rapid succession, and looks away, rubbing his free hand across his mouth.

“There’s a load of shit we need to unpack if we’re gonna have a shot at fixing **any** of those fuckin’ things, but for now? For now I’m gonna drink this bottle ‘til it’s dry. Maybe then the world will stop fucking spinning long enough for me to get a foothold on where to even _start.”_

There’s a twitch at Dean’s shoulders. Sam sees it in the way it makes the bottle in his grip tremble. And Sam knows that Dean is hurting. That he’s let the grief build up and up until it’s right at the surface, and that the tiniest droplet more could send it all spilling over the sides.

But Sam’s hurting too. And Dean, blinded as he is by his own pain, simply can’t see it.

And so Sam allows the tension to bleed out of him, relaxing the bunched up fists by his sides until his fingers are spread out in an open gesture. “Dean…” He wouldn’t be able stop his voice from wobbling even if he _did_ try. “I lost them too.”

Sam watches as the words reach Dean, his brother’s head drooping with the subtle bowing forward of his spine. A moment more passes before he nods his head, and moves back to the table, pulling out the chair at the head of it, and dropping down with a heavy exhale. He opens the bottle and fills his glass, lifting it towards his mouth. His hand pauses for a beat, and Sam watches as his brother’s eyes close and his lips form words that Sam has no hope of hearing. He takes a slow, lingering sip, staring into the depths of the glass for a long second when he's done, then tosses back the rest.

After, he lifts his eyes back to Sam and gives him a half-glare that is a mix of weary exasperation and poorly disguised misery. “You gonna stand there all night, or you gonna grab a glass and help me find the bottom of this bottle?”

Sam doesn’t have to be asked twice.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

It’s not a delicate fall, Mary and Lucifer’s tumble through the portal.

The archangel loses his grip on her after the first step, and Mary finds herself in an uncontrolled stumble. She catches herself before she hits the ground, and manages to turn in time to see the portal vanish from view. Behind her, Lucifer’s rage-filled scream reverberates, amplified by the barren wasteland.

At the realization that the portal is gone, creating distance between her and Lucifer seems like the best of ideas, so she pushes herself into a haphazard run over the uneven ground, with no destination in mind other than _away_.

She dodges around rocks and debris, aiming for a hill beyond a towering row of metal spikes sticking out of the ground. Unfortunately, any hope she has for keeping her feet under her is dashed when one of those feet catches beneath something heavy and immobile, causing her to go sprawling down. The only break she seems to catch is that the object she lands on is a corpse, and not something sharp.

It takes her a few precious seconds to realize that the corpse is someone she recognizes. _Crowley?_ Precious seconds that give Lucifer a chance to catch up.

His hand wraps around her bicep, and he yanks her up and off the dead demon in a motion that leaves her head spinning.

“Mary Mary Mary. Where you off to in such a hurry?” His other hand lifts to grip her at her other arm, the pressure hard enough that she can feel blood rushing to the surface for what is sure to be a lasting bruise.

She struggles against his hold as he pulls her closer, arching her head away from his proximity. “ _Let go_.”

“Hmm, let me think about that. How about...no.” His grip tightens keeping her hands locked against her side and limiting her mobility further. “But that does beg the question, what _am_ I going to do with you?”

Mary rolls her eyes, not caring how ill-advised it may be. She’s been dead before, it doesn’t scare her as much as it might have once. “If you’re gonna kill me, then _kill me._ ”

A slick, disconcerting smile spreads across his face. She wishes she had a hand free so she could punch it right off.

“Kill you? How unimaginative. Still, it has promise. Let’s table that option for later, shall we? Once you’ve served your purpose.”

“My purpose?” Mary says, confusion mixing with a swell of apprehension. She doesn’t want to imagine what use the devil could have for her that requires her remaining _alive_.

In response, Lucifer’s eyes glow a bright red, and she sees the shadow of wings sweep out from his back. “Mmm-hmm. You my dear, Mary, are going to-”

Whatever he was going to say is cut off in a shockwave of blinding light that knocks her back to the ground again. This time with no corpse to soften the impact.

Mary’s ears are ringing when the light fades. She levers her body up on her elbows to better take stock of the situation and sees that Lucifer is gone.

_What?_

She stares after where he’d stood moments before, her confusion making friends with relief.

“Mary? Mary Campbell?”

At the sound of her name, Mary turns and locks eyes on an unfamiliar man standing a dozen paces away. He wraps a bloody fist in a dirty rag. Droplets leaking out to fall on the sigil she can see painted in the dirt by his feet. She squints, and pushes herself to stand. Ignoring the woozy feeling the action causes as best she can. “Do I know you?”

The man laughs, the barking sound cut short by the wind. “Guess not. I knew you. A version of ya at least. Long ago. You come through that portal like your boys did earlier?”

Mary nods.

“Figured. Name’s Bobby. Bobby Singer. Hate to tell ya, but you picked a shitty place to visit.”

Mary opens her mouth to respond, but a sound like a desperate gasp for air followed by a fit of coughing grabs their attention. She spins on her heal towards the noise and sees what she knows was a corpse just a few minutes ago roll over; the not-so-dead man grasping at his abdomen as he sits up. His coughing intensifies, and Mary watches as he hacks up a mouthful of congealed blood onto the ground; a long trail of bloody spittle follows it down.

“Friend of yours?” The man - Bobby - asks with a frown.

Mary gives a half-shrug. “Not exactly, but…”

Hacking fit done, he wipes the back of his hand against his mouth, the sight of the blood coating it seeming to catch him in a trance for a minute; red-stained fingers flexing out and in as he stares at the appendages.  

With a shake of his head he lifts bloodshot eyes - eyes that Mary recalls were a dead gray not five minutes ago - towards Mary, a look of genuine shock on his face.

Mary recalls that feeling.

His mouth opens and closes a few times before words manage to find their way out.

“Bloody hell.”

And with that eloquent summary, Crowley’s eyes roll up towards his eyebrows, and he passes out.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, maybe I would have found this place cozy, quaint, once upon a time. I could have done wonderful, monstrous things here. Back before I ever heard the name _Winchester_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part two, folks! Thanks to everyone who read/kudos/commented on the first part! It helps so much to stay motivated, really. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

“Drop it, Sam.”

Sam stomps after his brother, trailing after him from the library and into the kitchen. “Damn it, Dean! Be reasonable!”

Dean scoffs, the sound amping Sam’s anger up several notches. “Reasonable? _Reasonable_? Tell you what, you try saying something reasonable, and I’ll respond in kind. Sound good?”

“How is rescuing Mom **not** reasonable?!”

“When all we’ll be rescuing is a corpse!” Dean’s gaze is hard, cold. It makes something in Sam seize up to see that look on his brother’s face.

“You don’t know that, Dean.”

Dean turns away and yanks open the door to the fridge. When he slams it shut, there’s a six pack of beer in his hand that Sam knows he has no intention of sharing. “She’s dead, Sam. How many times we gonna have this conversation before you get that through your head?”

The answer is - apparently - at least one more.

And probably another dozen or so after that, if Sam’s honest.

It’s been weeks now that they’ve been going round and round, and even after all that time, Sam can’t think of a single thing that Dean could say to convince him to just... _give up._

He _won’t_.

So he keeps trying. Every few days. In between scouring the news for any signs that Jack hasn’t just blinked out of existence. (Because of course he hasn’t. In no universe anywhere would they be that lucky. He has to be _somewhere_.) Or searching the lore in a fruitless effort to find _anything_ that could mean Cas isn’t just _gone_ , he broaches the topic of finding a way to reopen the portal, so that they can search for their Mom.

But so far he thinks he’d have more success breaking through a brick wall by hurling cotton balls at it then he will at getting Dean to budge.

So, same old same old.

The sad part is, as frustrating and unproductive as the arguments may be, Sam prefers them over the oppressive melancholy that settles whenever they have half a minute to really think about how screwed up everything is, and how they aren’t any closer to fixing any of it now, then they were when they started.

Neither of them want to say it, but they both know that they aren’t going to find a way to bring Cas back. They’ve always known that when an angel dies...that’s it. Cas...Cas was always very clear about that. But still, they look. They search. They hope. And Sam. Sam _prays._ Every night. A constant refrain, just in case.

_Just in case._

And even though they don’t talk about it, he knows Dean’s prayed too. The evidence present in empty bottles scattered over tables, dark-rimmed eyes, and raw bloodied knuckles the morning after.

Which is why Sam is so adamant about going back. Short of Jack popping up to say ‘hi’ without warning (because they’ve got _nothing_ on that front - and Sam never thought he’d miss having an easy ally with one foot in hell capable of doing just about anything with the snap of his fingers, but damned if he doesn’t now) he figures returning to the alternate universe and finding their Mom is the one chance they may have of something going _right_.

And man, do they need a win right about now.

So he keeps trying to convince Dean. Staying up hours beyond what his body and mind can handle, digging through the Men of Letters lore, and even making some ill advised calls to what few contacts in the hunter community they can still count on to try and find a way to get back there. So they can save her.

Because they can’t win if they don’t _try_.

“What if she’s not, Dean? What if she’s fighting back and surviving, looking for a way out? Are we supposed to just _sit here_ and do nothing to help her?”

Dean holds Sam’s gaze for a minute, and Sam thinks there may be a crack in his resolve, when his brother’s mouth turns down at the edges.

“Okay. Let’s say - for the sake of argument - that Lucifer didn’t gank her the minute that gate closed. And she managed to put enough distance between them, and any one of the _thousands_ of other immediate threats, and she’s still kicking around that hellscape. We’re gonna, what? Crack the world open like an egg and hope to find her before the yolk spills out? How?”

“There are spells that we could-”

“Yeah, sure. Those never fail. She’d only survive if she was warded, right? It’ll be a bitch gettin’ a locator spell to work around those.”

“I’m not saying it won’t be hard-”

“ _Hard_ ? Try impossible. But even if we _could_ find her, we gotta _get_ there first. You got something in your pocket that’s gonna tear the fabric of space and time for us?”

“No. Not yet, but I’ve been researching, and-”

“And even if you **do** find a way, we’d be chancing unleashing the apocalypse here on our world again. Hell, we’d be handing Lucifer a handwritten invitation! And what if we can’t close the portal this time? Crowley-” Dean’s rant cuts off with a swift shake of his head. “We can’t risk it.”

“I **know** what the risks are, Dean! I know what a shitty situation it is, and what we’ll have to figure out to stand a chance. And you’re right, the odds aren’t in our favor. But she’s our _mother_.”

“Which is how I know she’d understand.”

Sam sucks in a mouthful of bitter air, and says the one thing he’s held back during all their previous arguments. “Like you understood my not going after you in purgatory?”

Dean doesn’t flinch, but Sam can see that the words hit him like a punch even so. “Not the same.”

“No. You’re right. It isn’t. Because you going to purgatory was a hell of a lot more clear cut on the ‘dead or not dead’ scale, and no matter how hard you try to convince yourself, _or me_ , the last time we saw Mom she was _alive_. And if we don’t do _something_ , then she’s as a good as dead. And it’ll be our fault. And I can’t- I can’t be the reason she’s dead, Dean. I can’t. Not again.”  

His voice breaks at the end, and Sam finds himself - unexpectedly - blinking back tears. He’s had so little time with his mother, and the idea that she may be lost to them _again_ , it’s more than he can handle.

The hard cast on Dean’s face wavers, his eyes softening and the frown on his face shifting to one of concern. “...Sammy-”

“Please, Dean.”

Dean looks away, his throat moving with a swallow as he shuts his eyes, exhaling a long thin wisp of air. “Fine. But you’ve gotta promise me. _You_ _promise me, Sam_ that we don’t do anything; and I mean _anything_ , until we’ve got a hundred percent foolproof way of opening and closing that portal on demand, you hear me? Because as much as you don’t want Mom’s death on your conscience? I can’t have the whole planet’s on mine, alright?”

The nod Sam gives is over-enthusiastic, but his emotions are bordering on childish glee mixed with a hefty dose of disbelief, and he can’t quite control the muscles in his neck as a result. “Yeah. Yes. Of course. Absolutely. One hundred percent.”

“Great. Now, can we can back to those reports on strange energy surges happening outside of Little Rock I was telling you about? Maybe try handling some shit that’s more our speed. Like taking down the antichrist?”

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Mary rolls her eyes and huffs out an exasperated breath as Crowley’s unconscious body folds over and hits the packed earth with a thud. She’s debating whether or not it’s worth it to try and wake him, or if her and this _Bobby Singer_ should beat a hasty retreat before Lucifer returns, when an ear-piercing shriek echoes from the other side of the hill. A thunderous pounding noise follows in its wake.

“Shit.” Bobby’s back straightens out as he turns towards the sound, pulling the semi-automatic strapped to his chest down and checking the magazine.

Mary narrows her eyes in the direction of the sound. “What was that?”

“Black-eyed bastards, that’s what. Bunch of ‘em by the sound of it.” He clicks the safety off the gun and grabs a pistol from a holder at his thigh, tossing it to Mary.  

“Here. Devil’s trap bullets. Won’t kill ‘em, but it’ll put ‘em down long enough that you can sever their heads from their bodies.” He gives her a grim, hollow smile. “That usually does the trick. And if it don’t, well, we got bigger problems.”

Mary nods, checking the gun over and turning off her own safety. She takes the last few seconds before the horde arrives (damn, does she hope that isn’t an accurate description, for all it sounds like it may be by the sound) to scan over their surroundings. Looking for any areas of cover, or ambush points.

There’s a few, but not enough to make a difference.

The demons crest over the swell of the hill a moment later. Mary wants to feel relieved that the number can’t be much more than a dozen, but the size, shape, and just _otherworldliness_ of the motley crew precludes that emotion.

And then the fight is on. The... _creatures...._ barreling down on them so fast that neither of them have a chance to squeeze off more than a few rounds before they are forced into close quarters combat instead.

The hunter that she’s never met, but that knows her all the same, falls into step with her like it’s second nature. And she supposes it may be for him. It doesn’t take the two of them long to find a rhythm, her ducking a swing from a strange, horned _beast_ is paired with Bobby sweeping a machete out and severing its head. Mary covers his flank with a brass-knuckled fist to the jaw of a squat, boiled-faced _thing_ that bears only a passing resemblance to a man, while Bobby lets off a quick spray of bullets at something the size of an elephant with _six legs_.  

She has no idea when Crowley wakes up, or when he joins in the fray, but at some point he _does._ A wicked looking, long-bladed knife in his hand that he uses to take the head off another horned creature held down by one of the devil's trap bullets. He catches her eye from over the dead, tucking his chin in a nod of acknowledgement that she has no time to return before he is spinning on his heel and lunging after the one at his back, and she is forced to do the same.

Between the three of them, they’re able to take down the small (ish) horde. When they’re done, they are exhausted, and covered in blood and bile, but with minimal damage to their persons.

It’s a short haul from there to Bobby’s base of operations - a heavily warded and repurposed auto-garage that’s buried under so much rubble that Mary is surprised it hasn’t collapsed in on itself.

Of course that level of surprise is made microscopic in comparison to what she feels when Bobby puts both her and an oddly subdued Crowley through a thorough series of tests to ensure that neither of them is a snake in the grass preparing to bite his ass as soon as his back is turned.

A thorough series of tests that they _both_ pass.

That was a month ago.

At the time, Mary’d been half convinced it was a trick on the crafty bastards part, and had insisted that Bobby do the tests a second time.

And then a third. Just to be sure.

But now, the fact that Crowley’s mortal - she hesitates to call him _human_ because really, who the hell knows _what_ he is at this point, especially as none of them have been able to figure out how he’s even alive again in the first place - is becoming easier to accept the more times he gets injured in a fight, and doubly so with how much he continues to _whine_ about it.

“Ow! Watch what you’re doing, woman!”

“For the love of- Stop flinching and this’ll go a whole lot faster, Crowley.”

“I’ll stop flinching if you stop **stabbing me**.”

Mary arches a brow, but doesn’t lift her eyes from her task, pinching the skin along his wound closed so she can slide the needle through. “Kinda hard to stitch you up if I don’t stab you at least a little.”

Crowley winces as the needle slides through the other side and she tugs on the thread, pulling it tight. “Bloody hell! That **hurts.** ”

“Don’t be such a baby. We’ve all had worse. A dozen more stitches and it’ll be over.”

“Because I’m gonna pass out from blood loss.”

“Maybe next time you’ll remember to dodge.”

Despite her focus on the task at hand, Mary doesn’t miss the range of emotions that flitter across Crowley’s face. Confusion and annoyance, endcapped with a scowl highlighted by an angry flush. “Dodge? I- Well _excuse me_ for **saving your bloody life!** ”

“Is that what you call it? I thought it was you being an idiot and getting in my way.”

“You- If I hadn’t stepped in when I did, you’d be short a head right now! If this is the kind of thanks I can expect every time I help, I may stop bothering!”

“I didn’t **ask** for your help!” Mary tugs a little harder than necessary on the thread as her own anger rushes to the front, the next stitch pulling on the flesh enough to make a fresh bead of blood well up.

“Of course you didn’t! Winchesters. All the same. Rather be gutted than ask for a little help from a demon - only I‘m not a _demon_ anymore am I?! So maybe next time, you could swallow your pride and remember that **I’m on your bloody side**!”

Mary inhales through her nose, counting down from five as she releases the air again in an effort to not ruin all her hard needlework by tearing open his wound with her bare hands. “You’re right. You’re not a demon anymore, Crowley. You can get sliced and diced just like the rest of us now. And throwing yourself in front of a set of six-inch claws is a fast way to end up dead. Again.”

“Believe me, I know.”

The heat of the argument dies down at his admission. His jaw clenching against the pain as Mary finishes the next stitch.

She tries to avoid voicing the question that’s been plaguing her since he took the brunt of an attack that Mary knows would have cleaved her in half, focused as she’d been on the demon in front of her, and unprepared for the one at her flank. (There’s no such thing as a simple supply run in this place.) But it weasels its way up and out without her permission; her mind desperate to figure out the barest smidge of what’s motivating Crowley’s behavior these days.

“Why’d you do it?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Why do you think? If you’re not going to exhibit the most basic of self-preservation skills _someone_ has to. At least until the cavalry arrives.”

“Cavalry?” He looks at her like she’s an idiot when she pauses her stitching to ask the question.

“Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum? Those unfortunate fashion victims you gave birth to? Ring any bells?”

Despite herself, Mary snorts. “Sam and Dean aren’t going to come after me. It’d be too risky and they know it.” She turns back to her needle and resumes her work.

“ _Please_. If you think for one single second that those boys of yours aren’t working on a way to rip open reality so that they can whisk you back to Kansas, Dorothy, then you're not half as intelligent as I’ve given you credit for.”

Mary doesn’t respond, just ties off the thread at the last stitch and reaches for the gauze and tape. The idea that her boys would even _try_ to come after her had honestly not crossed her mind. It’d be an idiotic move of epic proportions. Surely, they’d know better than to try?

Right?

Uncertainty filling her, she finishes bandaging the wound and steps away from Crowley, heading off to clean the blood from her hands. When she’s done, Crowley is leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. He’s tugged his dirty shirts back into place over his side, one hand pressed to where the wound she just repaired lies. Even in the dim lighting, she can clearly see the bloom of blue and purple bruises across his cheek and chin.  

Mary stares, baffled by the former demon. (A state of emotion that is fast becoming perpetual when she’s in his presence.) Try as she might, she can’t figure out his angle. “Say they are planning a rescue mission. How’s getting yourself killed before they arrive supposed to help you any?”

Crowley cracks his eyes open, leveling a glare at her that she’s sure he’s used for centuries to intimidate countless minions into doing his bidding.

Mary just finds it frustrating.

“It helps if it means _you’re_ still _alive_ when they show up.”

Mary’s not sure what she was expecting him to say, but that wasn’t on the list at all. The idea that he’d put her life above **his** _doesn’t make any sense_. She may not have known Crowley well before they were trapped here together - and lord knows he hasn’t exactly been forthcoming since then - but her boys had told her enough stories about him that she feels like she’s developed a pretty clear picture of the kind of person he is. And she can’t fathom that after _somehow_ surviving being killed by Lucifer, he’d be more interested in protecting her hide then in covering his own. “Why?”

His glare subsides, and he turns to look out the single boarded up window in the room, as if he can see through the wood and metal plate to the world beyond. His voice almost wistful when he speaks.

“You know, maybe I would have found this place cozy, quaint, once upon a time. I could have done wonderful, monstrous things here. Back before I ever heard the name _Winchester_.” There’s a thread of annoyance mixed with what Mary thinks may be resignation in his tone. “But I’m running a little low on demonic ability these days, and seem to be chock full of _feelings_ , and I’m not too proud to say that this place scares the piss out of me.

“Do I want a ride out of this nightmare? Of course I do. But when your boys arrive - and they absolutely _will arrive_ \- I’ll be damned, _again_ , if all they’re gonna find is me standing next to your corpse.”

This time when Crowley pins her with his glare it’s much more effective.

“So do us **both** a favor, and stay _alive_.”

Speechless, Mary just nods.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this one up, folks. I spent a significant portion of last week (plus the weekend) sick, so that put a damper on my writing/editing time and ability. I'm doing better now, so the next part should (hopefully) be on time. *fingers crossed*
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Sam and Dean don’t find anything outside of Little Rock, all evidence of energy surges having dissipated by the time they arrive, and the authorities chalking it up to malfunctioning equipment. The brothers still give the town a thorough twice over, but nothing pops.

Frustrated with what feels like a wasted day, they head for home. 

They’ve barely set foot back in the bunker when Garth pings them with info on another surge that happened just the night before. So they hop back in the Impala without so much as a nap, and follow the trail north towards Minneapolis.

Their lives, ladies and gentlemen, _suck_.

“FBI? What’s the FBI interested in something like this for?”

It’s a solid question. One Sam would probably be able to answer with little difficulty if him and Dean hadn’t been up for 36 hours chasing one dead end after another. (The bus bench they passed on the way into the local utility building had looked as inviting as any motel bed, even if Sam’s legs would have dangled off the end.)

Dean gives the frowning engineer what Sam figures is meant to be his best charming smile, but it ends up coming off more annoyed than anything. Still, Sam gives him points for effort. He sure as hell wouldn’t be able to do any better at the moment.

“Sorry, Ma’am. That’s classified.”

The frown on the woman’s face grows more pronounced. “Uh-huh.” She leans back on one heel; crossing her arms over her chest as she eyes the brothers.

“Look, I don’t much care about classified, so long as you don’t cause any more problems for me. I’ve got rolling blackouts going on from one end of town to the other to deal with. You promise not to touch _anything_ and I’ll walk you through our plant. And if you ask real nice, I may even show you our grid schematics, see if all that government training can figure out something that my crew can’t. I assume you can read engineering diagrams?” Both her eyebrows arch up as she waits for a response. Dean just blinks at her, so Sam fields this one.

“Absolutely, Ma’am.”

_Nailed it._

She - Ms. Harrison? Harveyson? Harper? Har-something or other - nods and heads over to her desk, ruffling through a stack of papers a foot high, and twice as wide. A mug of coffee seems to materialize from nowhere in her other hand. (Sam guesses it was hidden behind the stack, but who knows at this point. If he’s not hallucinating yet, he will be soon.)

“...what I get for not putting them back…” She keeps digging, taking a long sip of the drink as she does. Sam tries not to whimper at the sight, but it’s possible that he might. Just a little. The constant companion that is his exhaustion crying out for the beverage so it can be put out of its misery. Ms. Har- (Gladys. Her first name is Gladys. Sam’s sure of that much at least.) doesn’t seem to notice. Instead she makes an ‘ah-ha!’ sound and yanks a packet of pages from the middle of the stack, flopping them gracelessly on top.  

She gives them a weak smile, the effort highlighting her own battle with fatigue. Sam guesses she hasn’t gotten much sleep in the last two days either. She jabs a finger at the diagram on top of the pile, her deep brown skin standing out in contrast to the page. “Here you go. Now I can’t let you take these with you, but feel free to take photos.” She scoops a set of keys into her hand and pockets them. “Give me fifteen and we can head over to the plant for an inspection.”

Sam and Dean both nod and look down at the map on the table. A multitude of impossibly tiny lines, numbers, and letters stares back at them.

_Shit._

On her way out the door, Gladys gestures to the far corner of the office. “Oh, and feel free to help yourself to some coffee. You both look like you could use it.”

Sam and Dean manage to wait until she’s out of eyeshot before descending upon the coffee pot like it holds the secrets of the universe (and also the last of it’s coffee).

But only just.

~~~\/~~~

The brothers’ inept perusal of the electrical grid schematics, tour of the main generator plant, and conversations with a half-dozen employees leads them to an abandoned mill in the wooded outskirts of the city that's supposedly been off the grid for a decade and a half.

They’re running on fumes at this point, but they figure they can at least do a cursory inspection of the place, see if there’s anything that might help the case along, before they find a motel and slip into unconsciousness.

The sun is just lowering itself behind the horizon when the car turns up along the drive, gravel crunching beneath its tires. Dean pulls the vehicle up slow, giving them both enough time to scope out the oversized brick structure settled into the ground ahead.

“Thought this was an old mill?”

Sam glances at the building, then back to the tablet in his lap, looking over the pitiful amount of info they’ve gathered in the last few hours. “It is.”

His brother frowns, making a lopsided rolling gesture with his hand. “So where’s the wheel?”

“I don’t think it was that kind of mill, Dean.” Sam flips through open tabs on the tablet. “Records say it was textiles. Wool, yarn, that sort of thing.”

“Huh. Kinda hoped there’d be a big wheel.” Sam smiles at the way Dean tries to pretend as if he isn’t pouting with disappointment at the building.

“Maybe it’ll be in back, along the river.”

“Ya think?”

“One way to find out.”

The two clamor out of the car, stopping at the trunk to load up first (flashlights, guns, knives, and salt - a hunter’s best friends) and fan out to case the exterior of the building.

They don’t get very far. Or rather, they _can’t_.  

Dean goes left, and Sam goes right, and thirty seconds later they are right back where they started by the side of the Impala, with no idea how they got there.

Sam’s pretty sure that wasn’t just a hallucination caused by sleep-deprivation. But he’s not ruling it out just yet.

He meets his brother’s equally confused stare over the hood, and on a silent count of three, they both of palm their guns, flip the safeties off, and try again.

Sam makes it as far as a dried out bush that’s little more than kindling some fifty yards away, he thinks he saw it last time, but he hadn’t been paying that close attention at the time, so he’s not sure.

Now that he’s waiting for it, he notices the moment that the world around him stretches out like a rubber band. When it stops he’s back by the car again.

“What the fuck?” And so’s Dean.

Sam doesn’t even have a chance to open his mouth to respond when his brother goes stalking back out one more time. Sam’s still there when his brother just _appears_ again by the car.

“Oh, come on!”

“Together then?”

Dean grumbles out an agreement and heads towards the trunk and starts rifling through it. Sam makes his way to his brother’s side. “What are we thinking? Ghost? Witch? Trickster?”

 _Or a nephilim._ He doesn’t say.

Dean tosses Sam the EMF meter. “Might as well rule out the basics.” Dean grabs the sawed off and loads it up with salt rounds.

Ready, the two of them turn back to the building, heading towards the front this time. Sam a step behind Dean with half an eye on the silent meter, while Dean illuminates the path ahead with a flashlight braced against the barrel of the gun.

Sam does a quick internal review of the most likely suspects for whatever is causing the current phenomena, and decides that absent of the unknown quantity that would be the son of Lucifer...well they’ve handled worse with less prep time before.

With their luck he figures that means they’re about to get a crash course in what it means to go against the antichrist.

All his thoughts are choked off and left to rot in the ether a moment later when a face Sam had quietly come to accept that they’d never see again steps out of the shadows.

At the sight, Dean halts mid-step just as Sam takes an elongated one forward; causing him to collide into his brother’s back.

Not that either seem to notice, what with the angelic specter standing a half-dozen yards in front of them bathed in the glow of the flashlight.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice breaks on the name. Fading out at the end. The one choked off syllable infused with equal parts hope, wonder, and suspicion.

Sam feels much the same.

“Hello, Dean. Sam.”

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

The world is awash in sepia and gray, like someone has muted all its colors, then spilled coffee on it for good measure.

Crowley hates it. Hates how if a sound isn’t so low that he has to strain to hear it, then it’s so deafening that it startles him. Leaving his pathetic human heart beating against his idiotic ribs and his oh-so-vital blood pulsing too fast through his too-thin veins, until he’s certain they will burst.

Hates how he’s become a slave to the needs and requirements of his (stolen) body. Hates how hunger gnaws at him all the time, food in too short supply in this hellscape world. Hates how his clothes, torn and tattered as they are, are beginning to hang off his thinning frame.

Hates how hard it can be to catch a breath.

Hates how his reactions are just a hair slower than he expects. Every. _Single. **Time**._ Hates how fast he’s accruing a collection of scars for all his troubles.

Hates how he’s getting use to Mary’s stitching abilities.

How he’s getting use to Mary. To Bobby.   

Hates how his emotions (hah!) play against one another like an off-key orchestra, and how he never knows what might inspire a surge of rage, or send a course of saltwater to sting his eyes.

Hates how often he thinks of his mother. Of Gavin.

Of Dean.

Hates how weak it all makes him feel.

But above all else, he hates how he’s never certain if he hates it at all.

* * *

 ~~~\/~~~

* * *

It’s of zero surprise to Mary that living in an apocalypse world is as exhausting and frustrating as it is dangerous.

_“I’m busy.”_

_“Doing_ what? _”_

_“Recuperating.”_

_“Boy, your damn wounds healed up last week!”_

_“Yes, well. Internal wounds take longer. Better pass me the swill you call scotch. That should speed things along.”_

And often fraught with the urge to strangle her two new roommates.

_“Tell me, what kinda demon were you again?”_

_“The royal kind.”_

_“Royal pain in my ass.”_

_“Only if you ask nicely, Robert.”_

At the very least, their lives here have a certain...rhythm to them. They hunt. They scavenge. They _survive._ (Barely, sometimes, but so long as they’re left breathing when all’s said and done, it’s a win.)

And, in the downtime between all of that, they research. Looking for ways to stem the tide, and maybe tilt the scales in favor of the few humans that remain.

_“You planning to help out any time this century, or you just gonna keep freeloading ‘til ya die?”_

_“Is the latter an option? Because if so, I accept.”_

Sometimes unwillingly.

Bobby has built a somewhat effective network of hunters. It’s effectiveness, as far as Mary can tell, only limited by how damn _thin_ they are all spread. And while the repository of lore that he’s collected isn’t quite on par with that of the bunker back home, it’s nothing to scoff at.

 _“Crowley! What the_ hell _do you think you’re doing?!”_

 _“Updating your woefully inaccurate library before someone accidentally summons a shoggoth when they’re_ trying _to banish one. Might make things a bit messy, that.”_

_“You-your **blacking out the text**!”_

_“It’s hardly_ my fault _that your reality is short on white out, now is it?”_

And after food, water, and weapons, knowledge is the most valuable commodity they have.

And Crowley...well Crowley is just chock full of the latter.

So much so that Bobby - whom the former demon seems to take a special kind of joy in antagonizing - has begrudgingly admitted to being impressed by.

_“I’m not saying that I don’t wanna gut him three ways from Sunday most of the time, but damn it all, he knows his stuff.”_

Which is good, because if Mary’s honest, she _hates_ research. She’d much rather be _doing_ something, then sitting in the dank remains of the scrapheap that they call home these days getting paper cuts as she tries to cross reference the cross reference to see if this demon begat that monster, and what the hell kind of a name is Suzy-Lou for a hunter, and why does she need to know how it _mates_ in the first place, and **Crowley get out here and help me already goddammit!!**

And the crazy thing is; the truly would be impossible to digest fact if she wasn’t there to witness it again and again with her own two eyes is:

He _helps_. Every time.

Sure, there’s the requisite bitching and moaning. Often paired with procrastinating at an olympic level. But it’s gotten to the point that Mary thinks that it’s almost a front. She can see it in the way that his fingers twitch when her and Bobby are conversing without him. How he wants to interject. Give them the answers. But he doesn’t. He waits.

Waits for them to seek him out. To _ask._

And while _yes_ that is frustrating as all hell. She can see his resolve starting to crumble the longer they are here.

And the longer they are here, the more willing she is _to ask._

Not just with the research. But when they are out on food runs. Or clearing out a demon nest that’s gotten too close for comfort.

_“Shit! Crowley. On the left. No the other left. **My Left!** ”_

_“I heard you the first bloody time!”_

_“Then move dammit!!”_

It’s still difficult for her on hunts, to call on him for assistance. To trust him. But it’s getting easier, day by day.

Easier to ask. Easier to _accept._

And that’s starting to bleed over everywhere else. So that when she finds herself feeling nostalgic. Not quite missing _home_ , because the other reality had only just begun to feel _real_ when she’d gotten stuck in this new one, but sometimes she’ll find herself missing what it was becoming. Find herself missing her boys.

And Crowley’s good for that too.  

_“Wait a minute wait a minute. Back up. This is Sam and Dean we’re talking about. My boys?”_

_“Do you know of another Moose and Squirrel? Non-animated, of course.”_

_“No. Uh-uh. I don’t believe you.”_

_“Why would I lie?”_

_“So many reasons.”_

_“True. But I assure you, this time, I am not. Ask them yourself, when you get back.”_

But most of the time, when she gives in and asks, it’s either because she’s in danger of banging her head against the table repeatedly if she has to look up one more thing, or because the books are in danger of meeting the business end of an axe.

She’s just getting to that point now, when Crowley waltzes through the doorway to drop a stack of crumpled pages two-inches thick on the tabletop in front of Bobby. The thunk of them as they land echoed in the way the other hunter jumps in his seat.

Brows scrunched up, and a small frown in place, Bobby lifts the mismatched sheaf of papers (most of which consist of repurposed pages, with old advertisements, or useless outdated information on one side, and Crowley’s meticulous handwritten scrawl on the reverse) and begins to flip through them. His eyes getting wider the further into the packet he gets. “What’s all this?”

“Said I would do my part. And I have. You’re welcome.”

“Care to expand on that? Or do you expect me to just translate your scribblings and see what happens?”

Crowley heaves a sigh, eyes rolling to the ceiling as he slumps back where he stands, hands shoved into the pockets of the (at this point) heavily damaged and soiled coat hanging off his shoulders.

“As we’ve previously shared words regarding, your library is somewhat...lacking. What you hold in your hands is the first batch of oh-so-important fill in the blanks that I’m graciously providing.”

Bobby flips through the stack, one by one. Making sounds somewhere between confused and appreciative as he does. Mary finds herself reaching for the pages as he finishes with them.

She’s skimming through a somewhat detailed transcription of enochian sigil translations and their alternate uses when Bobby’s disbelieving voice interrupts.

“How to Close the Gates of Hell. For Dummies?”

Mary glances up to see Crowley has slouched down into the vacant seat across from them. The fingers of his one hand smoothing back and forth over the uneven surface of the table.

“A personal favorite. There are several methods I’m aware of, but most require you to have an inside man, as it were, to make it happen.” Mary thinks back to her boys and the bunker, and how Crowley had offered to close the gates then. She’d not really believed he was serious, even if her boys seemed to, so she’d just brushed it aside with all the other lies she’d been fed in her lifetime and forgotten about it.

“Absent of having a friendly demon in your pocket, your best bet is using the ritual found on the Demon Tablet of God.” He gives the two of them a rueful, somewhat bitter smile. “Luckily for you, I’m _intimately_ familiar with that one, and so have transcribed it to the best of my ability. Still it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get your hands on the tablet, and find yourself a prophet to read it, first. My memory of the final part is a little... _fuzzy_.”

“A prophet? Of _God_?

“Indeed. They can help you out with transcribing the other tablets as well. Those are listed on the next several pages. Though, I’d advise you to grind the Leviathan one into a fine dust and scatter it across the planes of existence should you find it. Assuming, of course, you haven’t been enjoying this lovely bit of hell on earth these last few years?”

“Tablets of God. Prophets of God? And just where in blazes are we supposed to find these?”

Crowley gestures to the stack. “Keep looking. Page 79, subsection 4, I’ve provided you with a handy list of all the potential prophets I knew of back home. I’m sure some of them were never born here, and others likely met a nasty end already, but it’s a start. The location of the tablets is a smidge harder to predict, given how thoroughly this place has been devastated by the warring factions. But again, it’s a start.”

Bobby keeps flipping, and Mary keeps grabbing the pages from him as he finishes. Some of what she’s seeing corresponds to what Dean, or Sam, or the Men of Letters told her, but in much greater detail. Other items are wholly new to her.

“Course, could be easier to just roll up on God’s doorstep, if he’s still around these parts. Don’t suppose you know anyone by the name of Chuck Shurley, or Carver Edlund, hmm? No. Well, can’t hurt to look. Might get lucky.”

“You’re talking about finding God. The actual _God._ ”

“Yes. I’d suggest reading up on his sister first, and the Mark of Cain. Nasty bit of work, that. Though in the end, we did gain back the lovely Mother Mary here thanks to her. Or rather, thanks to Dean Winchester’s unending ability to worm his way into the hearts of the most heartless of entities. That all starts on Page 236.”

“Wait a sec. God’s _sister_ did _what_ now?!”

“Oh, did Mary not tell you that she was recently resurrected as well? We’re thinking of starting a club.”

“No. She didn’t.”

Mary shuffles in her seat, annoyed at being called out. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Didn’t seem- I need a drink.” Bobby moves off to grab the ratgut from the next room, grumbling about secret keeping jackasses the whole way.

Mary keeps flipping.

Floored by the absolute breadth of information that she’s finding in the pages, she lifts her gaze to Crowley. Trying, and failing, once again to figure him out.

“When did you have time to do all of this?”

“Here and there.”

“Here and there? I haven’t seen you working on this at all.”

“You’re not the most observant when you’re busy threatening the bindings, authors, innocent and not so innocent publishers of all the texts under this roof."

Mary huffs out a denial, she’s never that unaware of her surroundings, but she lets it go all the same. Opting instead to focus on the section titled “A Hierarchy of Hell: Princes, and Knights, and Demons, Oh My!”

Which is why it catches her off guard when Crowley speaks up. His voice low and tired. When she looks at him again, he’s looking at the table. The corners of his mouth turned down into his unkempt beard.

“At night, mostly. I don’t...sleep so well. It’s either this.” He taps his fingers on the part of the stack in front of Bobby’s still empty chair. “Or drink myself to death. Been there, done that. Not really looking for a repeat just yet. So....” He shrugs. And she finds herself in the odd position of wanting to offer him _comfort_ , but having absolutely no idea _how_.

So instead, she pulls up the book she’d been about to tear apart with her bare hands when he came in, and asks him what he knows about chimera.

If she catches the look of relief on his face before his usual smug facade shutters into place, well who’s she gonna tell anyway?

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY for the delay in getting this chapter out folks. I truly am. But better late than never, right?
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has been reading, and especially to everyone that has left comments or kudos. They help SO MUCH to keep me motivated, you don't even know.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

* * *

Dean’s familiar with the five stages of grief.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression.

_Acceptance._

Hell. He’s old hat at them. They’ve been closer and longer lasting companions than anything or anyone else in his life, save Baby and Sam.

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t think it’s all a bunch of bullshit. Manufactured, packaged, and sold by overpriced shrinks to gullible, desperate people. There’s nothing so easy, or subdivided about any of it. The reality of it is that they all swirl together, a poorly mixed cocktail that goes down your throat like motor oil, and hardens in your stomach like concrete.

This go around, Dean can pinpoint the moment denial set in with ease. It started with an angel blade facing the wrong way, and jammed with intent into the gut of the one holding it. There’d not been enough seconds allotted to him for the processing of that inexplicable act before what he guesses was in fact _the same blade_ had been plunged through the back of Castiel. The light of his grace burning bright until it was snuffed out; his empty vessel hitting the ground with a reverberating thud that rung in Dean’s ears for days after.

Before that whole sequence of events had run its course Dean had already begun to pray. To bargain.

**_To beg._ **

For anyone. For _anything_. To somehow rewind the world back ten, twenty, thirty, sixty seconds. Even while it was still refuting what it knew to be true, it was willing to make a deal, if someone would just correct what had gone wrong.

Would just ** _fix it_.**

It was then, his mind still tripping over in refusal of fact, that his mother had come marching out, fists swinging, and been drawn through the portal. Sealed away by fates that don’t know how to be kind.

Anger had come rolling in not long after. Playing a staccato rhythm against a verse of ‘no no no’ and an out-of-sync harmony of ‘please please please.’

The three of them - _denial, bargaining, anger_ \- had moved in fully after that. Unhappy dwellers in Dean’s head, rattling around his skull so that sleep was useless, and focusing on anything else was an impossibility, right up until the moment he’d clutched Crowley’s note and bottle of Craig in his hands. At which point, they’d all begun to be swallowed up by the gaping wound of realization.

They’re **gone**.

And there’s damn well _nothing_ he can do about it.

Whatever jackass doc said that _acceptance_ was some final culmination of grief didn’t know _shit_.

No other recourse that he could see, Dean had settled down with the bottle and the dark specter of loss, and drank until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Sam by his side at first, but then later when even that much human contact became overwhelming, alone in the empty quiet of his room.

It didn’t help, not really. It never does.

Not that it matters. Wasn’t like he had any better options.

And so it goes. For weeks.

He keeps the empty bottle of Craig on his dresser.

Sam notices. Dean knows he does. Dean sees the way that his brother does a double-take over it when he comes knocking one afternoon, sandwich piled high up on a plate in offering. He doesn’t mention it. Just holds the plate up higher, a wan smile on his face, and for that Dean is grateful.

Dean keeps the note too, but it’s nowhere where Sam could see. Hidden in the table by the side of his bed, under the cover of a copy of _The Sirens of Titan_ that’s seen better days, a couple of skin mags tossed on top so that he knows his brother won’t go digging. It’s been crumpled and flattened. Folded and unfolded. The crease pressed down and sharpened over and over again. He wishes it said more than the scant few lines written on it.

He’s simultaneously glad it doesn’t.

Dean spends most of the time sequestered away in his room, lost in his own head. Trudging through bottles of booze, a persistent loop of music pumping through his headphones in a futile attempt to block out the endless refrains of _Should’ve been faster...should've been better...Couldn’t save them...I can never save them...Why did he?...Is she really…? Is he…? Why? why? why why_ **_why_** _??_  

He’s aware of himself enough to be thankful for his brother acting like a life preserver as he sinks deeper and deeper into that pool of grief, all five of the damn stages washing over him in alternating crests, a threat of drowning that begins to feel more like a promise the longer it persists.

Sam finds a way to lure him out of his room every few days. Sometimes it’s with burgers, or pie. Other times it’s questions on lore that don’t seem to have any purpose _other_ than to get Dean talking. And on one memorable occasion, a desperate call for assistance when the washing machine had kicked over onto its side ( _how?!?)_  and was washing out the whole hallway with suds, got Dean’s legs moving.  

Things’ll be better for a bit after that, when he’s feeling almost normal. Almost alive. When he’s floating in that shallow end, and he can forget. 

But when that passes, things are just that little bit worse.  

He’ll catch himself wondering where Cas has gotten off to, what he’s doing. He’ll start to reach for his phone, intent on shooting a text off to the angel. Or to his Mom. To check in. Instead he’ll freeze up at the text message screen, thumb hovering over the leftover text message chains that’ll never be added to.

That leads him further down the rabbit hole, and he’ll go wandering listlessly through his archived photos, bloodshot eyes soaking in images he damn well knows he should have deleted long ago, but glad now that he didn’t, for reasons he’ll never own up to.

And he’ll remember.

 _He remembers_. And one of the other stages will fill him up like a flood.

Rinse, repeat.

The whole thing is a work in progress that Dean knows from experience won’t get any better so much as he’ll become accustomed to the weight of it dragging him down.

The way he had to with his Dad, and Bobby. With Ellen, and Jo. With Kevin, and Charlie. With Benny.

He damn well doesn’t want to get _use to it_. He just wants them back. All of ‘em.

Wants them here. Now. Home. Earth. _Wherever._ He honestly doesn’t give two shits about _how_. If he could have his family, every last one of them, back?

There’s little he wouldn’t give - wouldn’t _do_ \- to make it happen.

(That should scare him, but it really doesn't.)

Not that any of it matters, because no one’s listening. Not when there's no one left but him and Sam who give a shit.

And it’s _because_ Sam still gives a shit that Dean (eventually) lets his brother drag him out of the bunker. Just milk runs at first. A little salt and burn here, a little ‘look! the British Asswipes missed a vamp!’ there.

His liver thanks him for the break.

It’s not that long, all things considered, until he starts following leads of his own. The air outside of the bunker recharging him in a way that sleep fails to these days. He starts to drag _Sam_ out of the bunker, and away from his fruitless search to rescue their Mother, so that they can instead chase after something that stands a chance in hell at succeeding. Propelled forward by cold-simmering rage that helps to keep the grief at bay.

And sure, Dean knows that finding Lucifer Junior and making him pay for everything he’s taken away from them - from Dean? It won’t bring his family back, but it’ll feel damn good all the same.

And he clings to that. 

Which is how they end up at the world’s shittiest excuse for a mill (damn thing doesn’t even have a _wheel_ ), stuck in some weird-ass transporter feedback loop, tracking down the cause of their recent misery.

He’s so focused on the task at hand, so beyond thinking for even a moment that something could maybe (just maybe) go their way for once, that when Castiel steps out of the shadows, flaring his grace bright as proof of his existence after Sammy has enough presence of mind to make the request (something Dean, frozen with shock as he was, didn’t even consider), Dean is blindsided by it.

Because despite everything; despite having been to hell, to heaven, to purgatory and back. Despite having his brother brought back to him once, twice, countless times. Despite Castiel having done it almost as often. Despite the one-time gift that was Amara bringing his Mother back to them...

Despite all of that, the idea that someone somewhere may still be on their side? That something could go _right_? It’s not until Sam and him have both wrapped Castiel up in hugs in turn, and he’s been able to tell for himself that the angel is real, and solid, in front of them, that he thinks it may just be possible.

The swirling waters of grief recede a little at the thought.

They’re still lapping at his ankles, but for the moment, it’s enough.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Crowley’s manuscript on all things demon, angel, and in-between proves to be invaluable in far less time than Bobby figures it took Crowley to write the thing.

The hunter spends the next day and a half combing through it, line by line, until his eyes beg for mercy; never letting Crowley get more than a room away, in case he has questions.

And, _oh boy,_ does he have questions. An endless supply of them.

“So you’re saying that God’s scribe-”

“Metatron. A suck-up of epic proportions, and about as trustworthy as a rabid dog.”

“You’re saying that he created tablets on _everything_?”

“That’s right. God’s own personal _Silmarillion._  Word on the street was that they were meant to help defend mankind from any who might threaten it.”

“Sounds useful.”

“Oh believe me, with all the creepy-crawlies you have wandering topside these days, they will be. Though if I were you, I’d check, double-check, and triple-check the contents another dozen times or so _after_ you have a prophet translate them.”

Bobby frowns, leaning back in his chair to eye the man sitting across from him. “Why? If God made these to _help_ -”

Crowley scoffs, twirling the pen in his hand around a half-step; tapping it against the stack of incomplete pages in front of him in between each twist. “ _Help_ is often a matter of perspective. Some of them are as liable to let loose the beasts of your nightmares as they are to lock them up, if you’re not careful. Not to mention that Metatron? Is, in the words of Dean Winchester, a great big pile of dicks. Back in our reality, he buried his own spells into the angel tablet either without God’s knowledge, or without God _caring_. May have done that with others too, just because he _could_. Could cause a fair bit of havoc.”

“Right.”

“I’ve only ever seen the three I described, but I’ve heard whisperings of a fair few others. I’ve jotted down what I recall about them. Last known locations, that sort of thing. Our histories aren't so divergent that it should be at least somewhat applicable. If we’re lucky, at least a few are still in existence.”

In between the question and answer sessions, Crowley continues his work. Seeming intent on keeping his word to transcribe his vast knowledge onto the page. This time out in the open where Bobby and Mary can see the amount of effort he is putting forth.  

(Bobby's beyond denying that he's impressed.) 

There’s a second, smaller stack, done by the time Bobby is through reading the first.

He begs off reading that one for a pair of sunrises, giving his dried corneas some peace. He instead spends the next day putting out feelers through his hunter network. If they can get their hands on just one or two of these things…

Well, they may just stand a chance of saving the human race.

And it would all be thanks to a former King of Hell turned resurrected human from an alternate reality.

Who’d of thunk it?

The network all looped in and notified as best as he can manage, given the piss-poor communication system they have these days, Bobby gets back to reading, idly munching on some jerky that Crowley pushes his way when he settles back at the table between Mary and the other man.

(Bobby ain’t gonna make a big deal about it, but as much as he knows the two don’t belong in his dystopian nightmare, it sure is damn nice having ‘em around all the same.)

Mary and Bobby spend the next several hours going back and forth over the writings, while Crowley’s pen scratches away, filling up sheet after sheet with more material.

After the fiftieth time that either Mary or Bobby interrupts Crowley to ask for clarification on a sigil here, or a symbol there, the frazzled former demon spews out a series of what Bobby _thinks_ are benign curses, though he can only make out about half of what is said, mixed up as they are in a series of languages that Bobby is pretty sure include both Enochian and Aramaic (and maybe a little...Welsh? It’s hard to say...), and kicks himself away from the table, stomping off towards his room in a manner more consistent with a four year old than someone several centuries old.

When he returns he drops a literal _stack_ of papers on the table with what appears to be their own personal Rosetta stone. “Here. It’s only half-finished, but if it stops you from **_bloody bothering me every five seconds_** you can have it.”

Bobby rifles through the delivery, narrowing his eyes up at Crowley when he’s done giving it a once over. “Just _how_ _much_ Enochian do you know?”

Crowley’s brow creases and he cocks his head, a gesture on his face that seems to be half-way between a frown and smile. “All of it.”

“You’re fluent...in the language of the _angels?_ ”

“Yes. Rather handy in our line of work, wouldn’t you say?”

“Uh-huh. And just _how_ did you manage that?”

“I’m not as young as I look. Picked up a few things over the centuries.”

Bobby scowls at the other man. Annoyed, but also not surprised by the response. “One of these days you and I are gonna have a conversation, and you ain't gonna deflect.”

Crowley winks at him. The bastard. “Get me a bottle of genuine scotch, aged 30 years, and it’s a date.”

The remains of the day is half gone when Mary voices a question that causes Bobby’s head to whip up in a way his stiff neck doesn’t appreciate.

“You think their version of the lance is still in hell?”

“Hard to say. If their Michael has himself a meatsuit, and their version of Lucifer’s already been dusted like Robert here seems to think, then I’d say there’s a chance that the lance is back in its original owner’s hands already. Well out of our reach.”

Mary heaves a sigh, slouching back in her chair. “Shame. If we could get our hands on that…”

Bobby’s eyes shift between the two of them, noting the matching frowns they’re both sporting. “What are you two goin’ on about?”

Mary shrugs. “Nothing more than a dead end.” But she passes Bobby a section of text marked ‘Go Ahead, Bring a Gun to a Knife Fight (But Also Bring Knives)’ to him anyway. His eyes go wide when she points to the drawing at the bottom of the page. “That’s Michael’s -”

“Lance. Yeah, I heard that part.” Bobby swallows around the sandpaper that is suddenly wrapped around his throat, feeling his heart hammer against his chest. Not daring to hope quite yet, but...edging in the general direction of the emotion. “What’s so special about this thing?”

Mary and Crowley share a look, some unvoiced exchange that Bobby frankly doesn’t give two shits about passing between them, before Mary replies. “It’s a weapon designed by Michael specifically to take out Lucifer.”

Crowley picks up the thread from there. Speaking slow and purposeful, in that way of his that skirts condescending just enough to keep Bobby from smacking him upside the head on the regular. “Meaning, it - in theory - is capable of taking out _any_ Archangel.”

Mary hums, running a hand through her hair and scrubbing at the back of her neck. “Can’t get much more powerful than that.”

“No. Don’t suppose you could…” Hope, that dangerous little emotion, is blinking awake at the back of Bobby’s mind. “You draw this from memory out of a book, or…”

Crowley smiles, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes. “First hand experience. Yours truly had the pleasure of snapping it in half.”

“You what?!” Bobby darts his gaze between the pair, horrified at the nonchalant manner in which Crowley is holding himself after making such a declaration.

It’s not Crowley, but Mary who responds, looking away - over and past Crowley’s shoulders as she does. “A friend of ours was dying after being stabbed by it. The only way to save him was to break the lance, destroying the runes inlaid on it before they could finish the job.”

Bobby lets that sink in, taking the time to bend closer to the drawing and examine the detail as best as his old eyes will let him.

“Why so interested?”

When Bobby looks up at the question, the pair of them are both watching him. Mary looks at him with genuine curiosity, but Crowley...Crowley looks like he may have already figured out the why of Bobby’s interest.

“Because I think I know where to find it. And it ain’t with Michael, or in hell. It’s in frigging Utah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...you may have noticed that there was no explanation regarding how Cas is back yet. My apologies for that, but for SOME REASON that scene just wasn't working in this chapter AT ALL, so it's been tabled for the next update. Which should HOPEFULLY not take another 3 weeks...*fingers crossed*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is twice the length of most of the previous chapters, and that is AFTER I cut a chunk of it out and moved it to the NEXT chapter. I appear to have a problem shutting these characters up. Sorry not sorry? 
> 
> (Honestly, this should probably be two chapters on its own. But it's a holiday, so instead you get a nice long chapter to start off the new year!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Castiel’s alive.

Alive and well and standing right in front of them.  

His sudden and unexpected appearance is like a shot of adrenaline straight to Sam’s nervous system. His exhaustion (along with some harder to define weight) vanishing when the shadow of broken wings is cast against the bricks of the abandoned building at the angel’s back. It’s absence allows Sam’s spine to straighten, and he finds that he can’t shake the dumbfounded but happy smile from his face.

Because _this_? This is something going **right** for a change.

Which is just not something they get a lot of these days.

(See also: **at all**.)

And _oh_ , how he prays the flare of hope that is rushing in on the tail-end of that adrenaline isn’t going to be snuffed out before it has a chance to really grow.

He wants - _needs -_ this to just be the start of things going better for them. He’s not certain if he can handle it if this is just a herald of things turning south again.

And he damn well knows that Dean couldn’t. No matter how much the stubborn bastard may deny it.

Though by the look on Dean’s face - some uneven combination of hope and fear - Sam thinks his brother may be more in tune with his own emotional state than Sam gives him credit for.

“Cas… we _buried_ you. How-” Dean swallows down the end of the sentence, switching tracks. “Did Chuck-”

Castiel shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t my father.” A soft smile graces his face, making him look years younger than the vessel he inhabits. “It was Jack.”

Sam blinks, confused for a second before Castiel’s statement registers. His first, last, and _only_ image of the son of Lucifer and Kelly Kline flashing to the front of his mind. Golden irises set in a shadowed face much too old for someone only a few minutes in the world; a look of malice in place before the teenager had stood to his full height, stretched his wings, and vanished from view.

That was _months_ ago. And aside from a few, barely there leads in the form of wonky electrical grid surges, they’ve had _nothing_ to go on in their search. Of course, that was before this latest one, which has turned out to be much more fruitful than Sam could ever have imagined.

Sam opens his mouth to ask Cas to clarify what the hell happened, but a sputtering Dean beats him to it.

“Wait - Hold up. Jack? Jack as in _Satan’s spawn_ , Jack?!”

“While I would not refer to him as a ‘spawn,’ yes, that is the Jack to which I am referring.” Castiel’s tone is light, almost amused.

“You’re telling us that Lucifer’s kid brought you back? Why? I mean, not that we’re not grateful, because - _damn_ ,” A genuine smile flits over Dean’s face, the first Sam can recall seeing since before everything went pear-shaped. “Cas, you have no idea how good it is to see you, man.” The smile fades away into a pained frown of confusion. “But, if the antichrist was gonna bring anyone back, I’d of thought it would’ve been his temper-tantrum throwing dad, so they could unleash hell on earth like some evil Andy and Opie.”

Castiel shakes his head, a fond look on his face that Sam has dubbed his ‘I find humans incomprehensible but I love them anyway’ look. “As I told both you and Sam before, Dean. That isn’t what Jack wants. He wants only what is best for the world, for its people.” Cas’s eyes brighten as he continues, his belief in his words glowing within them. “He has shown me what a true paradise Earth can be. I believe - I _know -_ that it is my responsibility to help him make that vision a reality for humanity. That’s why I’m here. That’s why he brought me back.”

Sam hears the words, but he honestly can’t believe that they are coming from Castiel. At least, not the version of Cas that both him and Dean know so well, the version that has been on their side of the fight time and time again over the years. The version that’s _family_. It sounds more like a line he’d have expected from any one of the non-descript angels they’ve had the displeasure of running against. “Cas - You know how that sounds, right? The son of Lucifer, promising paradise on Earth? There’s no way that can end well.”

Castiel’s gaze swivels from Dean to Sam, eyes wide and beseeching. “Sam, If you had seen what I have… I believe then that you would understand. Jack is **not** like Lucifer. He is a _good_ person, and the being I’ve seen him growing to be is...truly divine. The two of us have bonded and - ”

“Bonded?” Dean interrupts, indignation ringing clear in his voice. “Is that what you call doing a Jedi mind trick on you while he was still in the womb? Come on, Cas! He’s freakin’ **_Damien_**! Evil incarnate. He must have an ulterior motive for bringing you back. No way was it outta the goodness of his heart. You can’t poss-”

Sam can see the way that Cas’s walls start to go up, brick by brick, the soft look that had been on his face since he arrived hardening the further into his rant that Dean gets, so while Sam may agree with his brother, he does them all a favor and cuts him off before he makes it any worse. “Dean, let up a little. The least we can do is hear him out.”

“Et tu, Sammy?”

“Dean, it’s _Cas_.”

The angry countenance on Dean’s face relaxes a little at the reminder, though Sam notes the tick in his jaw that results from him fighting back from saying what he wants. What ends up coming out of his mouth isn’t much better as far as Sam’s concerned. “Fine. Let’s hear all about how well meaning the devil’s kid is. What with those mind-whammy skills, he’s a real chip off the old block. His daddy would be so proud.”

“Be careful what you say about him, Dean.” Cas steps closer to both Sam and Dean. “While Lucifer may have provided the material necessary for his creation, Jack has chosen me as his father figure, and I intend to fulfill that role to the best of my ability. I will not have you speaking of him in a disparaging manner without cause.”

“Father fig- You know what, we’re gonna table that statement for a second. Because _goddamn_ , does that need a discussion.” Dean shortens the space between him and Cas by another step, his eyes narrowing as well.

“You wanna talk cause? Fine. How about him convincing his mother that she was better off dead than stripping him of his powers, _before he was born_? How about his very existence ripping open a hole to another reality, which - if Crowley hadn’t **_off’d himself_ ** _to stop it_ \- would have unleashed the apocalypse here? How about **our mom** getting stuck there with _his freaking father_ because of him?! Huh? Are those enough _causes_ for you, Cas?”

The walls that had been built so briefly beforehand begin to crumble before Sam’s eyes, Cas’s demeanor taking on an edge of regret. Sam’s getting whiplash from the pace at which the situation between the three of them keeps on changing.

Couldn’t everything just be happy and good and _normal_ for once?

“Mary is trapped on the other Earth?”

Sam sighs. “Yeah, Cas. She is. Dean and I have been trying to figure out a way to get her back, but…”

“Tearing open reality ain’t that easy. Go figure.”

Sam gives Dean an exasperated look. Begging him with his eyes to just _Shut. Up._ For one minute. His brother rolls his eyes in response.  

“Sam, Dean...I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“How could you, Cas. You were _dead_.”

Cas looks forlorn as he shakes his head. “I may have been deceased for a short period of time, but that is no excuse. If I had realized the situation with your mother, I -”

Dean cuts him off before he can get any further. A look on his face that Sam can feel reflected on his own.

_Short period of time?_

“Wha- back up a second. How long you been back, exactly?”

A contemplative frown settles on Cas’s face at the question. “While I know that I died, I don’t recall _being_ dead. I only know that one moment it was night, and Lucifer had stabbed me through the back, and the next moment it was day, and Jack was waiting for me on the stairs of the house I had rented.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, his hand bunching into a matching fist at his side. Sam can tell he’s probably counting back from ten in his head to prevent himself from saying or doing something he’d regret. (The fact that Dean would even _try_ to stop himself the best evidence that Sam can see that his brother has better control of himself and his emotions these days than he ever has in the past.)

Sam swallows. “How long after you were stabbed was that, Cas?”

Cas blinks. “Jack returned me to life within a few days of my death. Why?”

“Sonuvabitch! And you didn’t think to call us?!” Dean explodes. “To let us know you weren’t dead? What the hell, Cas?!”

 _Yeah_. Sam can’t help but agree. _What the hell?_

Cas looks back and forth between the two of them, but whatever he’s looking for, he clearly doesn’t find. He sighs, resignation settling over his features. “Jack’s powers - they aren’t stable yet. He has a tendency to cause...distortions in space and time. I’ve been working with him on them, and while he grows stronger every day, he’s not yet ready to be amongst the populace. It’s why we’re here. We set up wards to prevent anyone from inadvertently stumbling upon us, that was the spell you were caught in before I greeted you. I _had_ planned to call you once I knew it was safe.”

“Excuse me? You saying you couldn’t let us know _you weren’t dead_ **for four months** because you were too busy _babysitting the antichrist_ to pick up the damn phone?!”

“...I no longer have a phone. It wasn’t with me when I...came back.” He holds his hands out, palms up in a placating gesture. “Four months? I had not realized so long had passed.”

Sam marvels at the exchange, and at the way that his brother completely deflates at Cas’s response. Bending away, and in towards himself. When he settles, he’s scrubbing a hand over his mouth, pulling it down to reveal a baffled expression that’s more a disbelieving grimace than anything else.

Dean looks towards Sam, gesturing with an over-exaggerated hand at Cas. “You hearing this? He lost track of time. He doesn’t have a _phone._ So screw us, right? No reason to reach out to his damn _family_ and tell us that he’s alive, or-”

Sam lets Dean go off on his rant, but focuses his eyes back on Castiel. The angel seeming to let the angry words wash over him. He looks contrite, but not _hurt_ by the accusations being hurled at him by Dean, which is both surprising and a little out of character, if Sam is honest. The angel having always seemed to take everything Dean says to heart. Instead, more than any other emotion, Sam thinks he just looks _confused._

As if it genuinely didn’t occur to him that he should check in instead of continuing to allow Sam and Dean to think he was dead.

Sam decides it may be time to cut his brother off as Dean’s face reaches a truly epic shade of angry red, when a figure steps out of the shadows of the building behind Cas, and begins to walk towards them.

“Father? Is everything alright?”

It’s like a needle screeching on a record, the way the shrill sound of sudden silence echoes around them.

Cas turns his head, his countenance softening as he looks at the teenage boy coming up to his side and says “Jack, you should go back inside” at the same time that Dean says “Father? What the fuck?”

Sam’s brain echoes the sentiment.

Because, seriously? What the fuck alternate reality have they walked into here?

The boy frowns at Cas, a shock of hair flopping down over his scrunched up forehead. “I know you said to stay inside, but I heard shouting, and I was concerned.”

“Everything is fine, please go back inside.” Castiel reaches out and pats the boy’s shoulder, easing Jack’s frown a fraction.

Jack cocks his head at Cas in a gesture so reminiscent of the angel that it it catches Sam off guard. A beat later and he turns his gaze onto Sam. “I know you.” He squints. “Don’t I?”

Sam swallows, the innocent-looking teenage boy’s unassuming appearance so at odds with Sam’s memory of him that it’s off-putting. “We, uh, we met. Sorta. In Washington, when you - after you were born.”

“Right before you took off.” The cold in Dean’s voice drops the temperature around them by several degrees. Cas moves a half step, keeping himself between Jack and Dean. Jack doesn’t seem to notice, but Sam does, and he knows Dean does too.

“Oh. Yes. I...apologize? Being born was...frightening. I didn’t understand what was happening. Or where my mother was, or my father.” The look he turns to Castiel is worshipful, eyes wide and happy, a smile breaking across his face that makes him look more like the child Sam knows he technically is than anything else so far.

“That’s because you killed your mom, kid.” Jack’s smile falls at Dean’s frank statement in a sort of slow-motion fashion that makes Sam feel bad for him, despite himself. “And as for your father-”

“Dean!” Sam turns in towards his brother putting his back to Cas and Jack and whisper-shouting at Dean to draw his attention. Dean, to Sam’s surprise, goes with it, dropping the volume of his voice to match.

“What, Sam? You buying this innocent divinity peace-on-earth crap?”

Sam gives him a pained so-so gesture. “I don’t know, maybe? Look, something’s up. You know it, _I_ know it. But I don’t think Cas does. And Jack, well... _he brought Cas back_. And that’s good, right?” Dean frowns but nods, leaning back on a heel and crossing his arms over his chest, the shotgun he still has in hand dangling down along his side.

“I get why you don’t trust him, hell I don’t either, but maybe we can cut him some slack? For Cas’s sake?”

Dean grumbles out a “Fine” though he doesn’t sound at all happy about it. “But the first sign that he’s going all ‘The Good Son’ we’re ganking him, got it?” Sam agrees, and the two tune their attention back towards the conversation in progress behind them.

“Jack, it’s not safe for you out here. If you could please just go back inside-”

“But father -”

Which is apparently all Dean needs to hear to set him off again. “He ain’t your father, kid.”

Jack’s already present frowns deepens. “But he is. He’s the one my mother chose for me. The one _I_ chose for me. He helps me and takes care of me. It doesn’t matter if he wasn’t the one who helped to create me. He’s my father in the ways that matter.”

It’s simple and idealistic, and also an absolutely accurate description of what a parent _should be_. It makes Sam think of Bobby with a wistful sort of grief.

His brother, for his part, just says “Huh.” Which, yeah. About sums up Sam’s feelings on the subject quite nicely.

Dean shakes his head like he’s clearing water out of his ears. “Okay, look, _whatever._ We can discuss your weirdo family dynamics on the drive to the bunker, come on.”

Jack’s frown flips, turning into a giddy bright smile, but Cas holds an arm out to prevent his forward step, shaking his head once, looking sad. “I appreciate the offer, Dean, but, we’re not going with you.”

The sudden silence this time is less like a record screech, and more like a pin dropping in a cavern. Echoing endlessly. “Come again? Whaddya mean you’re not coming with? What the hell, man?”

Cas sends Jack a pleading look. “Please go inside, Jack. I’ll be in shortly.”

“But-”

“Please?”

Jack doesn’t just sigh, he flat out _pouts_. But he agrees, and heads back towards the mill. Cas watches him go until his feet hit the steps, before he turns his attention back to Dean. Which means he misses it when is self-declared son flops onto the steps like a small child, with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. But Sam doesn’t. And he finds the action endears the boy to him, just a little; the stance one he was familiar with himself as a child.

“Dean, I’m sorry. But Jack’s powers, they’re not…” Cas shakes his head, a look of pain radiating across his face. “They’re not stable enough yet. He’s improving, every day. But for now, we need to remain away from other people. Just in case.”

“Just in case?” Dean arches an eyebrow, his jaw tightening as he speaks. “In case he goes nuclear, ya mean? Jesus, Cas!”

“Dean-”

“No. Uh-uh. I’ve heard enough. The kid’s powers are so messed up and taking care of him has you so preoccupied that you lost track of time _for four months_ and don’t bother to let us know you’re **not dead**. Now, you’re saying you think the kid might blow, so you’re what? Gonna keep hiding out here so no one gets hurt? Well, newsflash, you’re hiding _sucks_.”

“We had precautions in place. I believe you encountered some of them.”

“What? That rubberband mojo? Sam and I could’ve gotten through that with a little time and elbow grease. It’d be nothing for a demon - or one of your angel buddies - to do the same.”

Cas lowers his head, heaving out a long breath. When he raises it again, the look on his face is more present, more clear than it’s been since he arrived. “We’ve only been in this location for a short time - a concept which I am coming to understand is highly relative in Jack’s presence. I’ve not yet had a chance to fully ward the premises.” Castiel stretches to his full height, his next words holding a level of finality to them that the rest did not. “I promise to do so as soon as you depart.”

“Cas-”

“No, Dean. The issues with the time distortion you’ve brought to my attention underscore how important it is that Jack and I remain sequestered away until he is better able to control his abilities. I fear what may happen if he is brought to the bunker too soon. Not because I think he will go ‘nuclear’ as you say, but because I worry that you and Sam may experience a jump in time that you aren’t prepared for, or that another tear in reality may occur in a more heavily populated place. I will not risk it.”

Dean’s face crumbles - ever so briefly - before he shores up his defenses. “You really don’t have a phone?”

Castiel shakes his head.

A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitches. “Of course not. Stay here.”

Sam watches as his brother turns on his heel and marches towards the Impala. Sam turns back to Castiel and gives him a concerned smile, edging on a grimace. “Cas - are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, Jack...he seems, okay, I guess. But. Paradise? Uncontrollable powers? What if-”

“Yes, Sam. I am. Jack is the answer to questions I didn’t have the words to ask before. But he is young, and it will take time for him to grow into the person he is meant to be.”

“And you’re sure he can’t grow into that person at the bunker? Where we can all help out and make sure he stays...safe?”

Cas shakes his head. “Perhaps one day, but for now...I can’t risk the possibility of him bringing harm to anyone. Most of all to you and Dean.”

Sam swallows a hollow breath. “Right.”

Dean returns a moment later carrying one of the spare phones they always keep in the glove compartment, along with a charger. He crosses past Sam over to Castiel, grabbing the angel’s hand and slapping the phone and cord into his open palm.

“Here. You keep this thing charged, and you _call us_. Every few days, you get me? You lose it or it breaks or it gets fried in one of the kids electrical surges or whatever, then you _go to the damn store and you get another one_. And when we call, you are _going to answer_. We don’t hear from you, I’m gonna assume that this entire thing has blown up in your face and we’ve got another apocalypse to deal with.”

“Dean-”

“No. This isn’t a negotiation. You wanna stick around and raise Rosemary’s baby, that’s your choice. I don’t like it. Hell, I hate it. But it ain’t like I can stop you. But **you call.** You check in. Let us know you’re not dead. And when we’re ready to go to Oz, you’re coming with.”

“Oz? Why would you need to-”

“Figure of speech, Cas. I mean when we’re ready to go diving into the apocalypse world to rescue Mom. We’re gonna need all hands on deck for that, and seeing as how Junior over there is responsible for it in the first place, he can damn well help out.”

“Ah.” Castiel nods, appearing contrite.

Dean’s gaze lingers on Cas, searching. After a few seconds, he heaves a breath, looking away and back again. “Just, answer the damn phone when it rings, and check in.”

Cas closes his hand around the phone, letting it fall to his side, and nods. “Okay, Dean.”

Jack chooses that time to pop up around from behind Cas, a smile so cheerful on his face that it’s unnerving. “I’ve never used a phone before! How does it work?”

Sam doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing.

Dean’s palm _does_ meet his face though. And if that’s not a perfect illustration of their current situation in life, Sam doesn’t know what is.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Mary and Crowley are off on a supply run.

_Again._

Only, for once, it’s in preparation for _going_ somewhere, rather than to continue holding themselves up for the duration of the apocalypse (i.e. forever) in the cave-like former garage of Bobby’s that they call home these days.

(Sure, the place is a lot more stable than Mary had originally given it credit for (hasn’t blown over in any stiff winds (yet), and the warding and protective sigils on it make it damn near invisible), but that can only defer cabin fever from setting in for so long. She’s never done well staying put, despite her best efforts. And that doesn’t seem to be changing just because the world around them is all sand, soot, and desperation.)

And so Mary can’t deny that she’s got a bit of a spring in her step as a result of their planned excursion southeast to Utah, where one Lance of Michael is reported to be waiting. The plans are still a bit thin on the ground, but Bobby had managed to make contact with a hunter cell in the area the day before, and if all goes well, by the end of the month they’ll have one hell of a weapon at their disposal. (Mary hopes that this time around things with the Lance go better. It’s a low bar though, as she figures they can’t go much worse.)

The end goal of _going somewhere_ , and maybe getting to axe Lucifer the next time they cross paths, makes traveling in concentric circles and spelunking into the ruins of civilization almost enjoyable. (Almost.)

At present, their adventures in shopping, apocalypse style, has them following a carved out trail beneath two dozen feet of rubble that Bobby’s survivor network put together at some point in the last decade. The trail leads to a storage cache of goods; a makeshift little depot that hunters and other humans on the list of friendlies can use to restock, and exchange out what they don’t need.

It works on a modified honor system, counting on the users themselves to leave something behind for the next poor souls that make the trek, rather than clearing the whole thing out in one shot. Both Crowley and Mary have expressed their...distrust of such a setup. Finding it impossible to believe that anything would be left after the first time a desperate cohort would make their way to it. Bobby assured them that it’s worked so far. Mostly on account of it being warded to the moon and back so that no one would get through who wasn’t on the approved guest list.

Mary’s still skeptical, but she figures her suspicions will either be allayed, or proved valid soon enough.

As they make their way, Mary drags her fingers along the mix of concrete, stone, and junk that makes up the ceilings and walls surrounding them, the calluses on their tips catching on the sigils that carve deep grooves into the surfaces. The texture of the carvings is accompanied by an underlying, hard to notice tingling sensation.

Bobby was right, the place really _is_ warded to high heaven.

“Not bad work. Robert continues to surprise.”

Mary’s head twists away from the wall to focus on Crowley. He gestures with his chin to the sigil whose outline she’d been tracing while they’d walked. “What’s so surprising about it?”

Crowley steps around a broken off piece of concrete in the walkway, allowing Mary a moment to do the same before he continues. “This type of warding is delicate. Time-consuming. Not something to be done in an afternoon. And not something to be done with monsters breathing down your neck. He must have camped down here - for weeks - to get it done. Takes dedication.”

Mary thinks about the hunter network Bobby has established, and how he seems to - single-handedly - been holding the northwest together against the neverending battle between heaven and hell on Earth. _For years_. “If there’s one thing Bobby’s not lacking in, it’s dedication.”

“Mmm, it does appear to be a core personality trait of his.”

Mary readjusts the flashlight in her hand to get a better grip. Based on the sketched out map that Bobby had provided, she figures their destination shouldn’t be far off now. “The other Bobby was the same I take it.”

“Indeed.

“He a lot like this one?”

“Mostly. Both just as surly. Both just as enamoured by catpiss masquerading as whiskey. Only real difference between the two so far as I can see, is that the one here didn’t have anything to focus on aside from survival.” Crowley gestures to the curving walls around them. “Made him a bit sharper - not as soft as the other one I knew. But, well, the other one had your boys, so one can hardy blame him for that.”

Mary ponders that a bit, trying  - and failing - to imagine Bobby tending to littler versions of Sam and Dean. It’s less that she has a problem imagining Bobby in that roll - he puts off enough stifled parental vibes that she can more readily imagine him in the roll than she can herself.

No, it’s more that she has difficulty imagining Sam and Dean as anything _other_ than the babies they once were, or the adults they are now. The entire middle part of their lives is just a black-hole, wiping out any attempts she makes at trying to catch a glimpse of them.  

“They were close, weren’t they? The boys had mentioned before, but never really said…”

Crowley huffs out a breath that’s not quite a snort not quite a laugh, but instead falls somewhere in between. “Close is putting it mildly. He raised your boys. More than that husband of yours ever did.”

A rush of annoyance and offense floods Mary at the off-hand statement, causing her to stop in her tracks and bark out a defense on John’s behalf. “Hey! John did the best he cou-”

“And you know that how?” Crowley turns to face her, hiking his pack up on one shoulder and giving her a sardonic smile.

She sputters. “Wha- I know - _knew_ \- John, and he _loved_ our boys.”

Crowley snorts, and begins walking again. On automatic pilot, Mary falls into step beside him. “Yes. Because love is all you need to be a good parent.”

“It helps!”

“You’re right, I’m sure it would.” Crowley’s voice softens. “But love in absence of anything else, does not a happy childhood make.” Mary feels her anger and indignation dwindling at the look on his face. She remembers Rowena, and the little tidbits she’d gathered regarding the entire absence of any sort of relationship between the witch and her son, even when he was just a boy.

She remembers her own parents, doing the best they could to keep her safe and secure, while living the life of a hunter. She was loved, she knew that, but she was never really _happy_. Not until she met John at least.

She hadn’t wanted that for her boys. She’d envisioned a cherry-pie lifestyle for them. With a roof that never leaked over their heads, and home-cooked meals on the table every night.

Imagined them never knowing that monsters were real, or that there was anything more scary in life than doing laundry, or worrying about getting their homework done in time.

But wanting something doesn’t make it happen, and imagining something doesn’t make it real.

She knows that now. Just like she knows she’d have been miserable trying to keep up the charade of Suzy-Homemaker.

She wonders what would have been worse for them, the reality of the life they actually lived, or the one they may have ended up with. Where their Mom just ran off one night, and was never heard from again, and them always wondering if it was somehow their fault.

(Mary doesn’t want to imagine that scenario, but she’s self-aware enough these days to know it was a possibility.)

Mary’s musings are interrupted by Crowley, who she’d almost forgotten was there, deep in her own head as she’d gone. “But don’t take my word for it. Sit down with your boys when you get home. Ask ‘em yourself. Start with Sam, he’ll give you his own unfiltered version with little prompting. Just show him a little interest, a little care, and he’ll spill. What he says will be more biased than a crossroads demon looking to make a deal, but it’ll wipe the roses away from your glasses well enough.”

Mary considers that. Surprised by not just the easily offered advice, nor just how _sound_ it seems to be based on her own experiences with her youngest, but from Crowley’s ever present surety that Mary’s boys are coming for her.

It’s been months with no sign. She has no idea how Crowley’s certainty never wavers, but she’s glad that one of them can manage it. Especially when she finds herself sinking further and further into the life that this world has to offer, as dire as it is, and thinking less and less about going home.

Whatever _that_ word means.

Crowley sounds almost fond when he continues. It pulls her focus fully back to him. “Dean though, he won’t give over so easy. Might not do at all, in fact. Still, if you can manage to get him talking, you’ll have all the answers about what life was like for the two of them after you died that you’ll ever need."

The surety in the statement catches her, as does the tone, like it always does. They’ve been stranded together long enough that the vast majority of their differences have been - maybe not ironed out, but flattened down at least - and Mary thinks she’s gotten to know the former demon well enough to have a clue about who this newly human version of him is.

He’s more open for starters. Willing to help out without prompting these days, now that he knows the help is both wanted _and_ appreciated. He’s also good for a story or ten, if you get a little liquor in him first. Weaving amusing tales about her boys without her even having to twist his arm.

Sometimes he plays a role in those stories, but not always. Those she assumes are either made up for her amusement, or come straight out of those Chuck Shurley gospels he told them about. (God. The actual _God_ , writing all about the lives of her sons like Harlequin heroes or something. It’s hard to process. But if she ever _does_ make it back, she’s looking those books up first thing.)

Made up or not, he tells them well, and she likes hearing them. Likes how they always end with her boys winning the day, even if she knows they lost a lot along the way.

Crowley’s typically in a better mood afterwards as well, which is sometimes the reason why she pokes at him to talk to begin with. It’s odd, the level of affection that he talks about them with sometimes. It makes her feel like she’s missing something that’s hovering just out of her reach.

She keeps trying to catch it though, for all the good it does. “You know this from experience, or just observation?”

“Know thy enemy.” He shrugs, the gesture looking false on his shoulders. Like he doesn’t really mean it. “I was King of Hell. Your boys were the number one cause of demon deaths when I ruled. Learning all about what made your boys tick? It was a bloody survival strategy.”

Mary shrugs, the empty pack on her shoulder sliding with the motion. “I guess it worked, seeing as how it ended up being Lucifer, not my boys, that did you in. Though I guess considering you’d practically defected at the end, that isn’t too surprising.”

Crowley makes a humming noise in response, but doesn’t deny it. “That’s the danger of getting to know your enemies’ backstory I suppose.”

Their meandering walk and conversation comes to an end at what Mary can tell was once probably the entryway to an old gas station, or a quick mart, the blasted up shell of the doorway still visible behind the repurposed refuse built up as walls around it.

“Think we’re here.”

Crowley drops his pack to the ground, rummaging around in it to grab what they need to deactivate the wards, while Mary tries to scope out the interior of the place for any surprises out of habit.

A moment passes, Crowley’s palm pressed up against the foundation stone in front of the entrance as he mutters away in some hobbled together form of latin and enochian, before the wards across the main wall flare up with a golden glow. “That should do it.”

Mary steps over the threshold on an inhale, pleased when she ends up on the other side in one piece. She whistles as she takes a look around. “Bobby wasn’t kidding. This place is stocked to the gills. Think we’ll be able to find everything we’re after.”

“Maybe. Let’s take a look-see and find out.”

Mary nods her agreement. “Anything out of the ordinary on the list this time?”

“Keep an eye out for any tarps, or canvases if you would. Mine’s been nibbled on by one too many rats, and I could stand for an upgrade.”

“Noted. You don’t think they’ll have any coffee in here, do you?”

“Doubtful, Ms. Mary. But I’ll be sure to snag it if it should cross my path.”

“ _Thank you_.”

Mary and Crowley split the difference as they head through the store, heading up alternating aisles to take stock of what’s available and grabbing what they need.

They wander that way for a short while, looking over, under, between, and behind the stockpiles, stuffing their packs as they go. They don’t have much to leave behind this time, but Bobby assured her that was fine, they could fill it later.

Her pack is half-full, with no sign of canvas or coffee in sight, when the noise of shuffling and grumbling, and annoyed commentary from Crowley’s side of the store slows to a trickle and then stops for several minutes. Mary makes her way to where she last saw him, just to check.

She finds him, back angled towards her as he faces one of the multitude of overstuffed shelves; head bent down over something that he’s got in his hands.

“Whatd’ya find?”

Crowley doesn’t answer, so Mary moves a few steps closer, until she can peek around his shoulders to see that he’s holding a book in his hands, it’s smallish, with a paperback cover that looks as if it’s been through a hurricane. “A book? Lore? Or one of those gospels like what was written on my boys back home?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. Nothing useful just...a novel.”

It’s what he says, but the fingers of one hand are paging through it with care, like he’s worried it may crumble at any second. And given the state it’s in, Mary thinks he may be right to worry.

She could leave it at that, but she doesn’t see any reason to deny that she’s curious about what has him so distracted. “Something you’ve read before?”

Crowley flips the page and hums, “I have. I’m curious if it’s different from the version I know though.”

“You know it well enough for that?”

Crowley gives a half-shake of his head. “I don’t, no.” But he’s tucking the book into the inner pocket of his jacket as he says it all the same.

Mary opens her mouth to question Crowley further when the radio at her hip vibrates to life. She snaps it up, depressing the button on the side as she angles it towards her head. Static is all that greets her, as per their established excursion protocol where the person at homebase waits for the field to respond first in case wherever they are at is...less that safe. “Field all clear, go ahead.”

Bobby’s white noise garbled voice comes through from the other side in fits and spurts. “Gonn... you … on the double. Shitstorm... “

Mary catches Crowley’s eyes over the radio, seeing her own concern mirrored in them. “Bobby, we’re having trouble hearing you. Can you try that again?”

“Balls… hol… sec…” His voice cuts out and Mary and Crowley wait, Mary’s knuckles going white where she squeezes the radio tight.

She counts off five, ten, twenty seconds before the radio flares back to life, Bobby’s voice coming through as loud and clear as it can, given the tin-cans they’re talking into. “That better?”

Mary releases a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, Crowley’s tense form next to her relaxing in time as well. “Much. What’s happening?”

“Angel siren’s goin’ haywire. Need you two to come back in. Fast as you can manage.”

Neither Crowley nor Mary waste any time securing their only partially filled rucksacks to their backs, turning on their heels, and heading for the tunnels again. She waits by the entrance for Crowley to reactivate the wards. “You got a bead on the location?” Mary asks while touching the pistol at her hip just to make sure it’s still where it’s supposed to be.

Even with the radio distortion, Bobby manages to sound offended at the question. “Course. Have we met?”

She can’t see it in the dim lighting of the tunnel as they move forward as fast as the narrow passages will allow, but she knows that Crowley’s rolling his eyes. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Robert.”

“Ya ‘member where the two of you fell into our scenic hellscape? Right ‘bout there.”

“Shit.”

“Yup. You two ain’t expecting guests are ya?”

Mary and Crowley share a wide-eyed look over the radio. Mary feels worry and hope flaring to life inside her in equal measure.

Maybe Crowley was right afterall, and her boys are here. Or maybe reality is as much of a bastard as it's always been, and a heavenly battalion has decided it's time for a visit. 

Either way, Mary and Crowley pick up the pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR ALL!! I wanted to dedicate this space to everyone who has been reading along, leaving kudos, commenting, or subscribing. You are all amazing, wonderful people, and I adore and appreciate all of you. I hope 2018 is a FANTASTIC year for each and everyone of you out there. You are all awesome :-D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And once more, I would like to thank everyone who is reading/following along with me on this ride. Every kudo/comment/fave/subscribe I get gives me life. You guys are the best :-D
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Well _shit_ , those ain’t friendlies.” 

“Your powers of observation are keen as ever, Robert.”

“Shut your trap, you, and keep an eye on that lot while I get our ears up.” Bobby smacks a pair of dirty binoculars into Crowley’s chest before easing down to the ground to assemble their spell-modified spying apparatus. The thing should, in theory, allow the lot of them to hear what’s going on in the clearing a half a kilometer away.  

While Bobby gets to work on that, Crowley spends a futile five seconds trying to clean the ground-in grit from the left lens of the binoculars, before giving up and lifting them to his face and focusing in on the scene upwind. What he sees is of more than mild concern.

Right where that horrid little portal had let Crowley and Mary into this world once upon a time, there’s a horned, grey-skinned demon on a chain, wrists bound, being forced to its knees by a pair of bland, cardboard cutout human-appearing males. (Angels, the both of them, Crowley would bet the moon on it.) Another three human-esque creatures form a semicircle around the kneeling demon. He guesses the man at the center may actually be human, given the way he cowers and shakes as the angel in an equally non-descript female meatsuit to his right pushes him forward towards the demon.

The frightened man clutches a thick book in a deathgrip against his sternum, shaking his head, lips moving but the motions too indistinct and obscured for Crowley to get a read on what he’s saying. Though he suspects it’s sprinkled liberally with ‘no’ and ‘please’ based off of the body language. On the outskirts of whatever ritual is in progress there are a series of sentries, all of them armed with an bright, shiny angel-blade.

All in all, Crowley counts ten (supposed) angels, two demons (there’s a spare near the back of the enclave, similarly chained with a guard holding its leash) and the one human.

On a ‘shitstorm’ scale of one to a hundred, Crowley ranks their current situation at about a seventy, maybe a seventy-five.

Meaning, they’re not quite screwed. _Yet_. But one wrong step, and they just might find their insides becoming outsides right quick. He’d quite like to avoid that for the moment. “Odds are decidedly _not_ in our favor. We try and get close enough for an angel banishing, and they’ll spot us in a heartbeat.”

Mary hums out her agreement from where she’s camped out prostrate in front of a sniper scope. “I could get two before the reload, if I’m lucky, but then they’d know where we are, and we’re sitting ducks.”

“I don’t fancy being shishkebabed myself. Any chance at reinforcements, Robert?”

The hunter shakes his head. “I sent out a beacon before I reeled you two in. The nearest pair is two days away. Got another half-dozen that can be here in six days, maybe seven. After that - well - the road this way’s rough, so ain’t no real way to tell. And most of ‘em have their own shit to worry ‘bout.”

“Worse than a small garrison of angels trying to pry open a portal to another world?” Mary says from her perch, voice sounding strained.

“Same shit, different day, Campbell. ‘Sides we don’t know that’s what they’re trying to do.”

Crowley’s hands are starting to itch, his reawakened flight or fight response disliking being in one place for so long. “We would if you got the sound working some time this year.”

“This ain’t like setting up a microphone, ya know. Give me a sec.” Is what he says, but Crowley’s internal countdown brings them to one-hundred and sixty-eight seconds before the piece in his ear flares to life with a nasty burst of white noise. By then, whatever the angel brigade has orchestrated is well underway.

The boy (because now that Crowley has been staring at him through the binoculars for more than two minutes, he can tell that the human they’ve got chanting in Latin in the general direction of the demon has less chance of seeing his twentieth birthday than Crowley does of seeing Juliet again) is pulled back and away from the demon by the angel wearing a handsome dark-skinned meatsuit to his left. The same angel nods towards the angel at the boy’s right, the newly live audio feed filtering his barely restrained voice directly to Crowley and company’s ears. “ _Now_.”

Frustrated with the way the issued command sends gnawing tendrils of fear out through his limbs, Crowley grinds out a shaky: “Mary?”

“I take the shot, that’s it for us. Not the cross I wanna die on.”

Bobby grunts out an agreement. So instead of any of them _doing_ anything, Crowley watches as a blade is drug across the demon’s throat, spilling blood down its front and causing it to gag. They wait with bated breath, along with the attendants of the ritual, for whatever happens next.

Which turns out to be nothing more than the demon dying a blubbering, drawn out death.

The head angel pulls the human into his side, his voice a coarse whisper that is almost carried off with the wind. “What. **Went**. **_Wrong_**?”

The boy shakes. They’re too far away, even with the assistance of the dirty binoculars, to make out the finer details, but Crowley imagines that there are fat tears rolling down the boys sallow skinned cheeks. “NNNothing!! I di-did everything exactly as, exactly as planned, I swe-swear!!”

The head angel huffs, and shoves the boy away from him and into the arms of the angel on his other side. He then turns to the pair standing on the other side of the circle, gesturing to the demon corpse at his feet. “Get this cleaned up, and reset everything.” He turns back to the boy, menace balancing on the shoulders of annoyance in his voice. “Then we are going to try this _one more time_ , and this time you-”

There’s a swirl of movement on the outskirts of the circle. A crackle of power that Crowley damn well knows he can’t actually _feel_ at this distance, but which makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up all the same.

(He misses the ability to teleport _desperately_ at that moment. Along with a whole host of other tricks that went the way of the dodo when he came back human.)

The display of power is punctuated by shouts of surprise from the angels at the center of the clearing, and grunts of pain from those on the edges standing guard. It all happens in a quick, dust-obscured series of impossible to follow movements that ends with several of the sentries dead. Explosions of shadowed wings lighting the sky testament to their former status as angels, and their new status as residents of the void.

Out of the over-dramatic dust-filled display, strolls Lucifer. The sight of the arrogant asshole makes the acid in Crowley’s stomach churn. He swallows around the sudden impulse to vomit, hating everything about his human body acutely when he tastes bile on his tongue.

“Michael! My dearest darling, brother. So good to see you!”

A string of colorful curses streams out of Bobby at the confirmation that there’s a pair of archangels in their sights.

“You certain these bullets don’t work on archangels, Bobby?” Mary’s request is steady, controlled, despite the situation.

“Never had the chance to test ‘em out myself, but your boy Dean sure did. Wasted a whole clip on the blond bastard down there. Didn’t make a dent.”

“Damn.”

The head angel, _Michael_ apparently, turns his attention towards Lucifer. His voice is flat, bored sounding, although Crowley catches a hint of surprise as well. “Lucifer? You’re dead. I killed you myself.”

“Here's the thing, I’m afraid that I’m _not_ \- strictly speaking - _your_ brother.” Lucifer paces around the half-circle of angels, a smirk in place as he side-steps debris in his path. “I came through that portal you are so - ineptly - trying to open.”

“You’re the one that’s been hunting my men.”

Lucifer puts his hands up, palms facing out in what would be a placating gesture if not for the shit-eating grin on his face. “Guilty as charged! I’m sure you understand having to break a few eggs sometimes.” Lucifer gestures pointedly at the dead demon oozing on the ground with a chuckle.

“Funny how things work out, isn’t it? In my world, you ended up in the cage while I’m free as a bird, and the world is…” Lucifer makes a so-so gesture with his hand, “a little less of a trash heap? Not that I don’t absolutely _love_ what you’ve done with the place. It has that special sort of dystopian end-of-the-universe vibe that our father would just _loathe_ and that’s something I can really get behind.”

Michael’s tone is all annoyance when he asks, “What do you want, _brother_?”

“Why, to _help_ you, of course. It’s clear we both want the same thing. And while I give you an ‘A’ for effort for snagging yourself a…” He rolls his hand in the general direction of the human boy still being held by one of the other angels, a look of distaste on his face. “Prophet - what is he? Twelve? Thirteen?”

“He’s seventeen. And he’s been raised to-”

“Don’t actually care. But _come on_. He’s a tadpole.” Lucifer steps back from the lot of them and spins with his arms out in an expansive gesture that illustrates the absolute _nothing_ around them all quite well. “And based on how your effort here fizzled out in such a sad, pathetic fashion, it’s clear that you could use some assistance getting where you so long to go. Hmm? And lucky for you, I’m more than happy to offer just that to my favorite older brother - one reality removed.” The bastard winks, and Crowley’s skin crawls.

Michael tilts his head. “Why?”

Lucifer shrugs, but Crowley knows that gesture. Is familiar with it and all its awful, frustrating, horrible connotations. And he knows that whatever comes next, it’s not going to be good, for _anyone_. 

“I’ve beaten you once already, and you’ve done the same to me. Way I see it, dear ol’ Dad’s prophecies have been fulfilled plenty in _both_ our realities. Seems as good a time as any to wipe the slate clean. Let bygones be bygones yadda yadda yadda.” Lucifer slides a step closer towards Michael, though still well out of range of the other angels. “Maybe...and now this is just a suggestion, but...I’m thinking we could make an exchange. Your universe for mine? I just need to pop back over there for a minute or ten to grab a few things, but after that? It’s all yours.”

“You’re...offering me a truce. And control of your reality?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Lucifer’s face splits wide with a grin as he lifts his shoulders to his ears. “Why not? You give me yours, I give you mine? Win. _Win_.”

Several long drawn out seconds pass by while the two stare at one another, just the howling of the wind filling up the space between. “There would be conditions, of course.”

“Oh, yes. _Of course_." Lucifer swivels his head and body to look around the clearing before kicking a bone stuck in the dirt by his foot. "What do you say we go somewhere a little less likely to be overrun by an army of special order beasts any second to hash out the stickier points? Neutral ground, if you will.”

To Crowley’s surprise, Michael nods his head in agreement. “I assume you have somewhere in mind?”

“Catch.” Lucifer tosses an object at Michael, only to have it snagged mid-air by one of the lesser angels. “Ohh, nicely done, Thing One.”

The angel that made the catch ignores Lucifer in favor of unraveling a document that Crowley _thinks_ is a map, but could just as easily be a flyer of some sort, a rock falls to the ground as she does so. After a few seconds she shows the document to Michael, who gives it a fraction of a glance before offering up an agreement to meet at the designated spot. A moment later the lot of them blink away, teenage human prophet and all.

It’s only when they’re gone that Crowley realizes that the taste of blood has joined the taste of bile in his mouth. His tongue throbs out at him, angry at how he was biting down on it viciously during the archangels’ conversation.

Stupid fragile human bodies.

“Balls.”

“Did that...did Lucifer just cut a deal with _Michael_? Did that just happen?”

Crowley tries to offer up a quip in response to Mary, but finds that he’s shaking too bad to do so. He closes his eyes, and begins to count down from twenty in an effort to calm himself.

He’s halfway through counting back upwards to twenty when Bobby taps him on the wrist. “Crowley? You alright?”

Crowley’s eyes pop open and he gives a somewhat stilted nod to the pair standing in front of him with twin expressions of concern. After a moment, he manages to croak out a “fine” over desiccated lips.

It’s clear by the look that Mary and Bobby share at his response that they don’t believe him any more than he does.

Still, the sudden focus on him and his mental state makes him uncomfortable. So he shoulders by the two of them, reaching down to snag the pack of supplies he’d been responsible for carrying there and locks the binoculars inside before tossing it over his shoulder.  

“Come on, we should get a look down there while we have a chance. See if we can piece together what ritual they were working on.” He doesn’t wait for the two of them to agree, just starts down the path.

He’ll never tell anyone how grateful he is when he hears their footfalls join him a moment later and a cheeky “Lead the way, Your Highness” tossed his way from Bobby.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Sam’s buried in a wall of books and notepads, the carcasses of a half-dozen pens scattered across the tabletop in front of him. His eyes are turning to dust, and his throat feels like he’s been chewing on sand.

It’s not a good look, he knows. And considering that his bedroom is only a hundred feet away, and the kitchen’s less than half that, it’s a special kind of ridiculous that he’s glad no one but his brother is around to see.

(Not that he wouldn’t welcome a visitor to the bunker once and awhile these days. It’s been too quiet in the place for far too long.)

Regardless of his current physical and mental state, he’s still not ready to give up the search. Not when he can feel success skirting just out of his reach.

They can do this. They can get their Mom back. _He knows it._

And yeah, he knows that focusing all of his efforts on this one thing might be edging towards unhealthy, but ever since Castiel turned up alive any doubts Sam had about their Mom being alive having been wiped away.

Because if Cas could come back from the dead, _again_ , then surely their Mom - as capable and experienced as she is, and alive as she _was_ when she fell through that portal - would have managed to survive being locked in a hellscape world. Even with Lucifer on her heels.

They just need to _go get her back_.

Then...then maybe Sam can have a shot of forming an actual, honest to God relationship with the woman whose death has defined his entire _life_.  

Sam’s thoughts are interrupted by his brother dropping a bottle of beer in front of him, the top already popped (something for which Sam is grateful, seeing as how bottle openers always seem to take a walk around the bunker whenever he wants one) and pushes a plate with a sandwich on it in Sam’s direction.

Affection warms Sam at the action, glad to see that his brother is slowly returning to his usual self. It’s immediately followed by a wave of concern when Dean settles into the chair across from Sam, his own beer in hand but no food in sight. Sam frowns. “You’re not eating?”

“Already did. Inhaled two while I was making yours. How’s it coming?”

Mollified, Sam gives Dean a half-shrug, taking a sip from the bottle before responding. “Not great. I’ve managed to translate at least a half-dozen of the potential dimension hopping spells we’ve located, most of which seem to be in some bastardized Sumerian cuneiform, but…” Sam shakes head. “They’re all incomplete. And so far _seem_ to be pretty specific about _opening_ portals, with no mention of closing them. And even skipping _that_ problem, they all call for an array of insane ingredients that I don’t know how we’re gonna manage.”

Dean lifts his eyebrows and nods his head as he gulps down a mouthful of beer. “Can’t say I’m surprised. If just anyone could break the walls down between realities, we’d be in a helluva lot of trouble.”

Sam picks up his sandwich, humming happily when he notes that the romaine he’d bought earlier in the week is on it. “I guess.” He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully while watching his brother scroll through his phone.

He’s been doing that a lot since Cas came back, Sam’s noticed. Always keeping it in easy reach in preparation for their check-ins from the angel. They’d been sporadic at first, while Cas and Jack worked on stabilizing the nephilim’s negative impact on the timestream. Dean had spent those first few days (and Sam too, if he’s being honest) in a constant state of agitation, ready and willing to drop everything and rush back to the mill to rescue their friend from the son of Satan.

It had taken them the better part of a week, but the pair had figured it out, and ever since, Cas has called in - like clockwork - once a day to give them updates.

And Dean, well, Dean’s been creeping slowly and steadily back to normal ever since. Or something close to, at least. It’s a work in progress, but now when his brother sequesters himself away, it’s in the garage tuning up the cars, as opposed to just being locked away in his room with his headphones on. And there's been a positive trend in the amount of food he’s been eating too, and a decrease in the number of bottles finding their way to the trash.

Despite all the improvement, Dean never quite lets himself relax either. Even now, with his feet kicked up on the table, and drinking a beer, he still appears tense. Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But Sam will take any amount of improvement anyway they can get it.

The last few days, that's been manifesting in the form of Dean letting Sam bend his ear as often as he wants regarding finding their Mom. Without biting his head off in response. He’s even begun to offer assistance. Dragging books from one side of the bunker to the other, or cross referencing to their Dad’s journal.

(He even made a call to Garth, which… well, Sam’s pretty sure by the end of _that_ conversation everyone involved on both sides managed to be accidentally offended by everyone else, just a little. So probably best if Sam handles contact on that end for a while.)

But while Dean’s been helping, he’s also been steadfast in his opinion that it’s a lost cause. Sam’s stopped trying to sway him at this point, satisfied that Dean’s not stopping him from trying.  

And now that Sam’s feeling like he’s really hit a brick wall with the research, he knows it’s time to bring up the the one idea which has been circling around his brain that he’s yet to voice. He knows it’s not going to go over well with his brother, but he’s also not sure they’ve got another choice.

He swallows down the last bite of his sandwich, and decides to just bite the bullet and say what he’d like them to consider giving a try. “Dean, I’ve been thinking.”

Dean drops his phone to the table, and turns his attention back to Sam. “Hardly news.”

Sam flicks a crumb in Dean’s direction. “Jerk”

His brother swats the crumb out of the air and smiles, just a bit. “Bitch. Spill. What’s rattling around that brain of yours that’s got you in knots?”

Sam sits up straighter, more surprised that he’s surprised by Dean’s astute observation of him, then he is by the observation itself.

His brother really does know him better than anyone else, even himself sometimes.

Sam clears his throat, organizing what he wants to say before he speaks. “Like I said, finding a reliable spell to open the portal hasn’t been going as well as I’d hoped it.  _But_ , we at least know of one spell that can _close_ it _."_

Dean’s mouth pinches down at the corners, eyes narrowing a fraction. “No. Uh-uh. Ain’t happening.”

“Come on, Dean.” Sam takes a deep breath, preparing himself for a fight. “Crowley’s spell is at least a decent jumping off point to work from. And hell, if nothing else, we know that it _works._ Why couldn’t we-”

Dean purses his lips like he’s tasting something sour. “You forgettin’ the final ingredient, Sam?”

Sam pulls back, surprised at the level of vitriol in the words. “Of course not, Dean. But, we could set up a devil’s trap, summon a demon. Use whoever we catch as a sacrifice.” Sam shrugs in an attempt to brush off the way just saying the words makes him feel a little dirty. “It’s not ideal, but it would work.”

Dean holds Sam’s gaze for a heartbeat, before shaking his head with a huff of air that may have been a laugh in another life, and lowering his feet back to the floor. “No, Sammy. It wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You really think that Crowley just - what? Up and killed himself when he could have snagged some random ass demon to do the job?”

Sam’s mouth open and closes, cutting back his gut-response, because while he hadn’t really _thought_ about it in those terms before, yeah, he _did_ think that was the case. “Didn’t he?”

“Yeah, nope. He didn’t.”

“How do you know? I mean, I’ve been researching every thing I can get my hands on in regards to portals and other dimensions, and I still haven’t come across the spell Crowley used. Did you find something, or-”

“I just do, alright?” Dean stares down at the bottle in his hand for a moment before swallowing another mouthful.

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair to push it back into place when it falls into his eyes. Choosing his next words carefully. “Dean - Look, I know that you and Crowley were...whatever it was you two were, and you knew him a lot - a whole damn lot - better than I did, but, that doesn’t mean that he didn’t-”

“Oh for the love of-” The bottle of beer in Dean’s hand hits the table with more force than Sam would have anticipated. The liquid in it sloshing up, but not reaching the neck. “This ain’t me pulling some boo-hoo woe-is-me bullshit because someone I gave a shit about went and played the martyr again.” He heaves out a stilted breath. “I know because he told me.”

Sam’s brain stutters. Thrown off-kilter by the multiple confessions in Dean’s short rant. He opts to focus on the one of the most immediate concern at the moment. They can deal with the rest later. Maybe. “He what? When?”

“It wasn’t-” Dean looks away, fiddling with the label on his bottle of beer. “He left a note. Okay?” When Dean looks back at him, his eyes are hard as flint. “That spell required a _willing_ sacrifice to work. Crowley knew that from the start.”

Sam swallows, a heavy, uncomfortable ball of _something_ settling in his gut. “Oh.”

“Yeah. But sure, if you think you can find a loophole in a spell that a centuries old and powerful demon - whose bread and butter was _finding loopholes_ \- couldn’t, go for it. It’ll be a waste of time, but I won’t stop you.”

Sam opens his mouth again, but his response is drowned out by the sound of Dean’s phone vibrating against the wood of the table. It shakes towards the edge before Dean snags it, casting a glance at the screen before putting it on speaker and settling it back against the wood.

His voice when he answers is calm, if tired. “Hey, Cas. How goes it in Pleasantville?”

“I’m not sure how it is in Pleasantville, but it’s overcast and windy in Springdale!” Jack’s overly cheery voice announces over the line.

Dean sits up, his whole frame coming to attention. “Jack? Where’s Cas?”

“He’s in the station, paying for gas. And snacks! He left his phone on the seat, said we’d call you when he came back out, but I thought, why wait? How’s Kansas?”

Dean heaves an exasperated sigh and drags a hand down his face, looking to Sam for help. Sam rolls his eyes, but takes over for this brother.

“Kansas is fine, Jack. Where, uh - you said you’re in Springdale? Where’s that in relation to Shakopee?” Sam asks, hoping against hope that it’s next door to the Minnesota town Cas and Jack have been camped outside of since they found them last month, and not halfway across the country or something. (Cas had sworn that Jack’s accidental teleporting issues were under control, but a relapse is certainly a possibility.)

“About 950 miles west, in Montana! They’ve got these really beautiful mountains that seem to go on forever. And the air is really crisp? Kind of icy too. I really like it here. Have you guys ever been here before?” 

Dean mouths ‘what the fuck’ to Sam, and Sam can’t help but agree, still he keeps the thread of the conversation going best he can. “Yeah, Jack. We’ve been to Montana.”

“What was your favorite part? The mountains or-”

 _“Jack, who are you on the phone with?”_ Cas’s voice, muffled like he’s just approaching the phone from a distance, cuts off whatever Jack’s next question was going to be.

“Sam! And Dean.”

_“Can I have the phone please, Jack.”_

“Of course, Father.”

Sam doesn’t need to be looking at his brother to know that he’s rolling his eyes so hard at the honorific that they may just roll out of his skull. He is looking at him though, and he’s hard pressed to keep his laughter at the over-exaggerated gesture in check.

“Hello, Dean. Sam. I’m sorry if Jack disturbed you.”

Sam says “It’s fine, Cas” at the same time that Dean says “What the hell are you doing in Montana?!”

There’s a crinkle of static over the speaker as Cas responds. “Stopping for fuel. The truck that we are currently using has sub-standard gas mileage, and-”

“No, Cas. Not why are you getting _gas_ , why aren’t you at the _mill_? Did Junior go for another walkabout? I thought you guys had that under control.”

“Jack hasn’t accidentally teleported anywhere in almost a full week-”

 _“Six days, four hours, and forty-two minutes!”_ Jack shouts out much louder than is necessary for Sam and Dean to hear him over the line.

“Yes, thank you, Jack. The two of us left the mill as Jack has been experiencing visions.”

Sam’s heart rate spikes at the pronouncement. Memories bubbling up from the depths of his mind that he tries his best to keep buried. “Visions? Of what?”

“It’s difficult to say. At first, Jack’s visions were...muddled. Abstract. We weren’t sure _what_ he was seeing, but it seemed that their clarity was improved by movement. When we realized they improved the further north and west we moved from the mill, we decided that driving in that direction might result in a significant enough improvement to allow us to determine what it was he was seeing.”

Dean shrugs with his head and mouth, gaze locked on Sam from across the table. “Okay. Odd, but okay. You needed to get away from the mill to get a better signal.”

“...Yes.”

“So did it work? Is the reception better in Montana?”

“Somewhat. We still aren’t certain of the specifics, but…no, Jack, those are for dessert. You need to eat the sandwich first.”

_“But-”_

“Your body needs fuel still, Jack. You have to take care of it.”

_“Fine. But I can have it after, right?_ _”_

"Yes. You can have it after. And make sure to drink some water. It's important to stay hydrated."

Sam covers his mouth with his hand to hold back his laughter at the random interruption, and even Dean’s face is splitting with a smile despite his efforts.

“My apologies, where was I? Oh, yes. The clarity of the visions have improved enough that we have a destination in mind. We're heading back to Washington. And we think it would be best if you were to join us there, if you’re available of course.”

“Of course we’re available, Cas! Come on. Just tell us where and we’ll be there.”

“North Cove. At the house where Jack was born.”

Sam and Dean both tense, memories of all that went down the last time they were there playing out in ugly technicolor. Sam watches as his brother swallows a breath of air and looks away. “Why there?”

“We believe someone or something may soon be trying to break through to our world from the alternate reality your mother and Lucifer have been trapped in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know we're ~25K words into this fic (Eeegads! How did THAT happen?!), and my fellow shippers are probably wondering when the heck Dean and Crowley are going to be in the same universe, and all I can say is we are SO CLOSE now folks, I promise! Hang in just a little longer.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand, I'm back! I've been wrangling with my characters the last few weeks because they didn't want to do what I was telling them to do. I finally gave into their demands, and in thanks, they are allowing me to post this chapter. While it doesn't include all of the plot points I had PLANNED for it to (*shakes fists at characters*) it does have us pointing in the right direction, so yay!progress!
> 
> As always, here's hoping you enjoy. And thanks for sticking with me over this several week hiatus! You guys rock and I love you all :-D

* * *

Bobby’s wrong. 

It takes closer to four days for the nearest pair of reinforcements to arrive instead of the two he’d estimated. When they show, it’s with little fanfare but a whole lot of road dust.

Two women - faces and heads obscured from Mary’s view by hoods and scarves - roll up on a single worn-down motorcycle that Mary guesses is made up of parts from at least five others. The machine comes to a surprisingly well-muffled stop near where Bobby and Mary are waiting under a covered lean-to beyond the gate to Bobby’s (and Mary and Crowley’s too, now, she supposes) home and base of operations.

The pair dismount. The taller one moving the bike off to a little alcove on the side, where it’ll be well shaded and hidden away. The shorter one hops in place kicking her feet out and throwing her arms over her head in a shoulder popping stretch that Mary can sympathize with.

“Still riding that bucket of bolts? Ain’t you two ever heard of a lost cause?”

The shorter one snorts, the sound muffled by her scarf. “Aww, Bobert! No such thing as a lost cause.” She tugs at the cloth around her head to reveal a dust-coated face made older by too much sun and a vicious scar slanting down one cheek and across her chin, just beneath a lower lip turned up in a genuine smile. The dull daylight catches on strands of red hair dancing out from beneath her hood like flames leaking out.

“How many times I gotta tell you not to call me that, girl?” Bobby growls, the smile on his face belying the gruff tone.

The girl laughs, the sound full and pleasant. “Don’t know. Keep trying and maybe one day it’ll happen.” She steps forward, wrapping her arms around Bobby’s neck in a tight hug that the older hunter returns with easy affection.

“Yeah, yeah, heard that one before, Charlie.” 

The hunter - _Charlie_ \- releases Bobby with another laugh. “Hey, man! You gotta keep the faith, otherwise what’s the point?”

“Hrmph. You keep your faith, I’ll stick to not getting dead.”

“I find your terms acceptable.”

“I’m sure he was real worried, Charlie.” The taller woman’s voice is familiar, though it’s not until she lowers her scarf and lifts up her goggles that Mary figures out _why_. She swallows down her surprise at seeing a familiar face, distorted as it is by the presence of a milky left eye, and tells herself it doesn’t actually belong to the woman her sons had introduced her to what seems like a lifetime ago. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Jody.” Bobby’s voice goes a little soft on the name, and Mary watches as he gives her a brief, but still warm, hug in greeting. “Took you longer to get here than you said. Run into trouble?”

“Hit a patch of tempters a day south from here. You know how it goes.”

Bobby whistles. “Still got all your limbs?”

“Of course. What do you take us for, amateurs?” Jody unhooks a set of packs from the bike, slinging one up onto her shoulder, and tossing the other to her companion who makes an exaggerated ‘oomph’ sound when it hits her with a puff of dirt. The dark-haired woman looks at Mary. “Mary, right? Bobby says you guys are having some angel problems?”

An image of Lucifer and Michael plotting together flashes behind Mary’s eyes, and she cringes. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Those feathered assholes are plotting to break reality, ‘s what they’re doing.”

The redhead heaves out an impatient sigh. “Can we move this convo indoors please? I’ve got dust in all my crevices, and I’ve been dreaming about washing my eyeballs for the last five hours.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on.” Bobby leads them to the heavy main door to the base, the pair following close behind with Mary picking up the rear. “Got a decent rain a few days back, so the collectors are nice and full. Should be plenty for you two to clean up some, if you want.”

“Yes, please and thank you!” Charlie bounces up and down, more like a kid than the seasoned hunter she clearly is. It makes Mary smile to see that this place - as shitty as it is - hasn’t syphoned off all the joy in the world yet.

The lot of them stop for a few minutes at the entry so that Bobby can run the two newcomers through the standard ‘no monsters allowed’ series of checks. The pair hold out their arms for dousing and cuts with nary a flinch, and tug their collars open to confirm that their anti-demon possession brands are still in place. (The warding to get through the gate is excellent, with devil’s traps buried beneath the gravel for good measure. But with all the curveballs this place likes to hurl at them, Mary can’t say she disagrees with Bobby’s paranoia.) 

Once they’ve been given the all clear, they head in; Mary stopping to secure the door behind them.

It’s odd, she thinks, how small a universe it is. She hadn't known this Bobby before she got here, but he’d know her. And now, in walks an alternate version of a long-time friend of her sons, only this one has no idea who _she_ is.

Odd, and if she’s honest, a bit unsettling.

Still, there’s no denying that she’s thrilled by the prospect of having someone - _anyone_ \- who is neither an enemy nor her contrast gruff companions around to talk to.

Mary catches up with the trio as Bobby is in the middle of explaining the current water and electrical limitations they have in place (“I ain’t saying you can’t shower, Charlie. I’m just sayin’ you have a two minute limit on the hot water supply.”)

As the redhead is arguing her case for “the strategic use of just a teensy bit of magic, Bobert” to allow them all longer showers, Crowley wanders out from the direction of his room, focused on a sheaf of papers in one hand, and twirling an ever present pen in the other. He stops when he realizes that there’s a small crowd blocking his way, glancing up briefly at first, and then again with enough speed that it it must hurt.

If Mary thought that _she’d_ been unsettled when she’d recognized Jody, that’s nothing compared to the way Crowley’s face pales as his eyes dart from Jody to Charlie and back again. He coughs out a humorless laugh. “I need a drink. You lot want a drink?” He spins on his heel, and stalks straight to Bobby’s supply of alcohol without waiting for a response.

In the silence that follows, he yanks a bottle off the shelf with a shaky hand, pours something Mary knows is meant to be sipped into a glass, and throws it back like a shot. A second one follows at its heels. 

Mary and Bobby exchange a glance, the other hunter’s mouth pressing into a tight line. “You actually planning on sharing that bottle, _boy_? Or were just feigning bein’ polite?”

Crowley refills the glass a third time, though this one he doesn’t down in one go. He leans against the counter, tipping the bottle in Bobby’s direction with an off-kilter smirk. “If anyone wants in on this bathtub swill, _old man_ , they’re welcome to it.”

“Keep insulting my stock. See how fast you get cut off.” Bobby steps to Crowley and tugs the bottle from his grip. Eyes locked on Crowley, he reaches past him to pull a stack of cups off the shelf, and portions out servings for everyone.

In quick order, the sudden heavy atmosphere is lessened, and the earlier debate over showers forgotten, as both Jody and Charlie accept their drinks with nods of thanks. Mary takes hers with a grimace she tries (poorly) to camouflage as a smile. (Because really, Crowley’s not _wrong_ about it being bathtub swill. Except she’s pretty sure it was made in a sink, not a tub.)

“Ladies, this here is our resident bellyacher, Crowley. Crowley, this is-”

“Jody Mills and Charlie Bradbury.” Crowley raises his refilled glass to the pair with a sardonic smile. “Good to see you’re both alive and well.”

The redhead chokes on her drink, sputtering liquid over her chin. Jody reaches up a hand to smack her back. Her face is calm, but Mary can tell by how wide her eyes have gone that she’s as perturbed by Crowley’s recognition as Charlie is. 

Charlie recovers quick enough. “...um, thanks? But my name’s Middleton, not Bradbury.” Charlie tilts her head up, a hint of a smile playing at her mouth. “Far as alias options go, it doesn’t suck. Could use it and pretend we got lucky enough to live out _451_ instead of _Revelations_.”

“Bite your tongue, girl. At least with the winged bastards, we got somewhere to point and shoot.”

“Sorry, Bobby.”

Jody squints at Crowley. “Have we met?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Crowley takes a deep draw from his glass, but doesn’t elaborate any further, so Mary picks up the slack.

She slides a step closer towards Crowley, hoping to offer a united front. The urge strong enough that she doesn’t bother to question it. “How much did Bobby tell you about our angel problem, and how Crowley and I met up with him?”

Jody pans her gaze away from Crowley and lands on Mary, her one milky white eye providing an discomforting point of focus. “Not much. We haven’t been on a secure wire for a while. Not after our last safe house went up in smoke.”

Charlie snorts, tapping Jody in her ribs with an elbow. “Putting it mildly. We were already heading out this way when we picked up your signal, Bobby. Hoping for a place we could lay low for a bit. Recoup. Things have gone from regular level nasty to hidden boss level absurd.”

“Hell. You two are always welcome, you know that.”

Jody lips tip up in a soft smile. “Yeah, we do.”

Crowley sips from his glass, tilting his head and shoulders in an loose shrug. “Could be that your bit of nastiness is related to our archangel gang-up.”

“Wait a sec, archangel _gang-up_? As in, more than _one_ archangel? I thought the only one left was Michael!” Charlie half-shrieks at a pitch that makes Mary cringe.

“Bobby _what_ is going on? You said you had an angel problem, but... _archangels_?” The hand that Jody isn’t using to hold her glass curls up into a fist, a muscle in her jaw twitching. “We both know - hell the entire hunter community on this _planet_ knows - Michael killing Lucifer is what started this whole godforsaken mess! And he went through _both_ Raphael and Gabriel to do it. So _how_ can there be another one?”

“Your ‘too long didn’t read’ version of it is this.” Crowley snags the bottle back from Bobby, refilling everyone else’s glasses and then his own with long, slow movements. “Mary and I are from an alternate reality where it’s a little less Mad Max. Before we got ourselves trapped here, we imported our own copy of Lucifer, and now he and your version of Michael have decided to have a go at teaming up.” Crowley lifts his newly full glass in a toast at the gobsmacked stares from their guests. “Cheers!”

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Sam and Dean make it to Washington as the sun is setting over the Pacific.

They park next to Cas’s newest gas-guzzling truck - a beat-up Dodge so in need of a wash that the white and blue paint appears gray - and in front of the little house they last saw months ago through a veil of grief. The building seems softer bathed in the orange and pink glow of dusk. The porch lamp is already lit, like a welcome sign, and pale yellow leaks out through the curtains at the front. Sam can see movement through the gauze, and despite himself, a smile twitches at his lips when he realizes the date.

It’s almost Thanksgiving.

The jury is still out on Jack, but Cas is family. And while things may never calm down enough for their lives to be considered normal, it’s nice to pretend every once and a while that his brother and him aren’t beset with the constant, ongoing chore of saving the world, and can instead indulge in everyday things like visiting family at the holidays.

(And if Sam finds that he can’t quite stamp down on an eager, giddy feeling at the prospect of getting their mother back in time for the holiday, well, who can blame him?)

Sam’s halfway out the door of the car before he realizes that Dean is simply staring over the dash at the house, tension carving furrows into his forehead and at the corner of his lips. Making him appear older than he is (or possibly closer to his true age, if Sam counts the time he spent in hell, which he doesn’t).

“Dean?” He waits a beat, then prods further when there’s no response. “Everything all right?”

“Hmm? Oh, uh, yeah…” Dean’s eyes flick away from the house, over and out the driver’s side window and back again. “Tired, need to get some coffee in me.”

While Sam doesn’t doubt the truth of the statement, he can see the lie buried within plain sight, but let’s it go. He can dig later, if he has to. After they’ve figured out what’s up with the portal visions.

And maybe, just maybe, after they’ve gotten their mother back.

They’ve only just slammed the doors shut on the Impala when Jack bounces out onto the front porch with a too-bright smile and an overly-enthusiastic wave. “Hi, Sam! Hi, Dean! It’s me, Jack!”

Sam laughs, more at the annoyed huff his brother lets out than at the greeting itself, as ridiculous as it is. As if they haven’t met before or talked on the phone dozens of times at this point. “Hi, Jack. Cas inside?”

“Yup! Come on in. Father was just going to teach me how to make popcorn. Do you like popcorn?”

Sam’s eyebrows lift towards his hairline at the non-sequitur, but he manages a response all the same. “Umm....sure? Popcorn sounds good. We’ll, uh, just grab our stuff and meet you inside.”

“Great!” And with that, Jack bounds back inside the house, a happy little hop in his step.

Sam grabs his backpack off the floor of the car, checking to make sure he has his charger, and glances at where his brother is swinging his duffle up onto his back from the trunk, a scowl curving deep lines down around his mouth. “Making popcorn to greet the coming apocalypse. Ain’t that just _swell_?” The disdain coating the words is thick and angry, and - as far as Sam can see - entirely unwarranted.

“Dude. Come on. Give the kid a chance.”

Dean slants his eyes at Sam as they scale the steps. “Oh, trust me. _I am_. You’ll know it when I _stop_.”

Sam shakes his head, but drops it. Mostly because he figures Dean is right, and he _will_ know when he stops. But also because he’s not ready to give up the pleasant feeling of _possibility_ he’s riding at the moment.

Is having popcorn with the son of Satan weird? Sure. But so is everything else in their lives. If Sam hadn’t learned to roll with the punches decades ago, he’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere.

Or...actually. He’d probably be hosting Lucifer, and living in muted, horrified silence inside his own brain.

Sam shudders, the thought grabbing hold of him for just long enough to quell the happy, hopeful sensation he’d been floating around on. _God damn it._ Even when Lucifer is trapped a literal world away, Sam can’t ever quite shake him off.

He doesn’t realize he’s gone still until he hears Dean call out his name. He blinks back to reality, and sees his brother watching him with narrowed eyes and a frown, the door to the house held open by his heel. “Sammy? All right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Just...tired too. I guess.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m good, Dean.” Sam gives him a smile that’s not meant to do anything but end the line of questioning. “Let’s get some popcorn.”

Dean wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t offer any additional commentary. 

They follow the sounds of muffled discussion through the living room and into the kitchen, where Castiel and Jack are standing, identical looks of bafflement on their faces as they stare down at a pot on the stove.

Cas gives it a small shake via its plastic wrapped handle. When nothing happens he picks up a package from the counter, frowning. “Something should be happen-” A popping sound interrupts him. Sam watches as a singular kernel of popcorn bounces up into the air from the pan and back down. Followed by another, then another, until an entire riot of corn is popping away.

Cas’s frown flips, and laughter barrels first out of Jack, then Sam. Who rushes to their aid as they fumble around for the bowl they had set aside. Together, they maneuver the treat into the bowl, only losing a few pieces to the floor. Sam pops a piece into his mouth, grinning at the taste. “Not bad.”

Jack’s smile takes over his face as he munches. Cas watches him with fondness before taking a piece for himself, and offering a more subdued, but still pleased response. The expression melts away when he looks towards the kitchen door. “Sam? Where is Dean?” 

“What do you mean? He’s right-” But when Sam turns back to where he left his brother, Dean’s gone.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Crowley’s drunk.

But then again, everyone else in the room is too, so what’s the harm? 

The deep dive into the bottle he’d begun with the arrival of the oh-so-familiar pair of reinforcements has broken his previously self-imposed avoidance of over-indulgence, and he can’t say he regrets it. Not when his limbs are feeling loose, the constant roar of blood in his ears has dulled to a quiet yell, and the roller coaster ride of emotions he’s been on since he woke up human has smoothed out to something closer to a lazy river.

He’d forgotten how _nice_ being drunk could feel.

He likes it.

Judging by the way that the conversation around the room has migrated from world-ending, we’re all doomed, aren’t angels just _the absolute worst_ , to more benign topics like gross hunting stories, Crowley guesses that everyone else is equally enamoured with inebriation.

“So Abbie and I - that’s this hunter I use to run with back home, she’s wicked smart, and _hot_ \- we caught one in a trap, like a literal _bear trap_ , and when it snapped closed? Just _pus._ **Everywhere**! The sludge that came off that thing? Ugh! It was so freaking gross. Blech! Used up half a month’s worth of soap getting clean. Worth it though.”  

The redheaded hunter whom Crowley had known as the adopted kid sister of the Winchesters once upon a time gives a full body shudder, but her cheeks are red, and her smile is wide as she refills her glass. He finds that he’s helpless but to smile along with her. Seeing her now, like this, it’s easy to see how she was able to worm her way into Dean and Sam’s hearts and small circle of family. 

He pushes the pang of _something_ that knocks at his own heart down, determined to stay in the agreeable fog of alcohol as long as he can. “Ran into one of those once, few years back. Bit a hole clean through one of my favorite coats while I was distracted with...something else. Luckily, my hellhound - Juliet - took care of it for me, so I didn’t get slimed myself. Poor pup was covered though. It was murder getting her clean.”

Crowley can feel a sappy little smile settle on his face at the memory. He doesn’t try to hide it though. Content to revisit the time through the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia. Which isn’t hard, since this particular memory happened back when he was still a little twisted up on human-blood, and Dean was a somewhat regular (if reluctant) fixture by his side. And hell, on this particular occasion, Dean had been the _cause_ of the aforementioned distraction.  

 _Ahh, good times_.

A sputtering cough across the way jars Crowley out of the memory he’s lost himself in. “Wait a minute wait a minute. _Your_ hellhound? You mean, like a _pet_?!”

“Mmm. More a companion really. They’re very intelligent. And highly loyal. I trained her from when she was just a small thing.” He sips on the liquid in his glass, eyes half-lidded. “Miss her terribly. Wonder how she’s been these last months without me...”

“No. No no nonono. You’re gonna have to back up like, fifty-five steps or something. _Where_ did you get a - a hellhound _puppy_?! And more importantly _why_ did you _have_ one!”

Crowley squints at Charlie, she must be drunker than he thought. “Where? Where do you _think_ I got her? Hell of course. And I should think the _why_ I had her would be obvious.”

Charlie looks from him, to where Jody and Bobby are lounging against one another on the shoddy couch. When no help from that corner is forthcoming, she turns back to Crowley. Eyes wide, and a little glassy, and expression one of pure confusion for no good reason that he can see. 

“Crowley-”

Crowley swivels his gaze towards Mary at the other end of the table, blinking rapidly to bring her into focus when he finds her fuzzy at the edges. “Yes, Mother Mary?”

She huffs at him, blowing a long strand of hair out of her face. “I hate it when you call me that.”

“Then why does the corner of your mouth twitch upwards every time I say it?”

“Does not.”

“Just did.”

“Whatever. Stop distracting me. I had a point you know.”

“Please, by all means, point away.”

She gestures towards Charlie with the limp wave of her hand. “She doesn’t _know_.”

“Doesn’t know wha-” Crowley swallows, realization settling over him. “Ah. Hmm.” 

“Hello! She’s still here and would very much _like_ to know, sometime today if at all possible, please!”

Crowley shuffles back and forth on his chair, feeling unaccountably _uncomfortable_ all of a sudden. He considers a half-dozen different ways of explaining, but decides that all of them will take way more effort than he feels capable of at the moment. So instead, he takes another sip of his drink, sucks in a deep breath, and rips the plaster right off.

“I use to be a demon. King of Hell, point of fact. No worries, I abdicated in absentia when I caught this rather fetching case of humanity.”

“You were...the _King_ _of Hell_? Really?”

“Mmm-Hmm.”

The edges of her mouth angle downward and she glances at Mary who offers a simple, “It’s true” in response. She slides her gaze back to Crowley, looking him up and down like she’s trying to find horns, or scales, or something. He opts not to feel insulted by that, given how _most_ of the demons they encounter in this reality _do_ have all of the above.

When she starts laughing so hard that tears come to her eyes, Crowley decides it’s okay to feel insulted.

Insulted, and maybe just a bit relieved.

“Hey Jodes! We’re in the presence of royalty!”

“So I heard. Can royalty do Bobby and I a solid and refill our glasses, we’re running dry over here.”

Mary snickers, and Crowley, well....

Crowley stands and refills their glasses.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Crowley gives them a bow, and makes his way back to his seat where Charlie greets him with a grin. “So, hellhound puppies! Deets!" She makes a grabbing motion with her hand. "I _need_ them. Gimme!”

Crowley laughs, and tells her everything he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously though, Crowley and Dean were SUPPOSED to be in the same universe by the end of this chapter. THAT WAS THE PLAN. But, as you can see, that hasn't happened quite yet. *sigh* But I SWEAR TO YOU we are really almost there. Honest.


End file.
